The Room with a Computer
by Minisinoo
Summary: Hogwarts has a new professor of Muggle studies - who happens to be a Muggle. McGonagall is skeptical, Hermione is curious, Ron is jealous, Ginny is impressed, and Harry has questions. Arthur Weasley finally gets a plane ride.
1. Chapter 1

Harry Potter: This tale assumes events in Book 6 (and is consanguineous with them) up till Christmas. Naturally, the events depicted herein didn't occur, but nothing in this story directly contradicts Book 6, so while it's mildly AU, it's not entirely outside canon.

* * *

X-Men movies: It'd be good to have seen X-Men 2 and know what a mutant is; other comics knowledge optional. Events in X2 occurred five months before this story begins. Uses nothing from X-Men 3 (except a blue Beast).

* * *

ON TIMING: HBP takes place 1996/97; X-Men 2 early 2000s. Yet as the Wizarding World seems less tied to the mid-90s than X-Men 2 to post 9-11 events, I've moved the HP world forward in time to the early 2000s. Thus, some of the items discussed herein would not have existed in 1997. I'm well aware of that and ask readers to roll with it.

* * *

Notes: This is pure wish-fulfillment kink fic (no, not that kind of kink). I threw together two favorite characters from two very different fandoms to see what happened. There's no deeper motive than that, and no real excuse for this except my own entertainment. I'm well aware that electronics shouldn't work at Hogwarts, but I'm running with the assumption that Dumbledore is powerful enough - and skilled enough - to get around it. Other notes at end.

* * *

The first time Hermione Granger heard the word "mutant," it was spoken by her parents in hushed tones after her magical powers had first manifested. She'd been 10. She hadn't really known what the word meant, but listening at the crack of her parents' bedroom door while her mother had cried and her father had tried to be encouraging, she'd gathered that being a mutant was a Bad Thing. Shortly after, Professor Dumbledore had appeared on her family's front doorstep to acquaint them with the Wizarding World. Later that same night, her father had said to her mother, "Better a witch than a mutant, I suppose. At least there's some history and tradition there, and a place for her to learn to control it."

The second time Hermione heard the word "mutant," it was in her fourth year at Hogwarts. A Hufflepuff girl had suddenly begun evincing a unique and apparently non-magical ability with stone and crystal. She could feel the presence of any type of rock and even alter it. At her touch, coal might become diamond with no need either for alchemy or centuries of geological pressure. "Mutie" was whispered in the hallways, along with "mudblood freak." The girl had disappeared in late October only to reappear in late January - her special, geomorphic touch under control - ready to continue her magical education. Hermione had never talked to her, and though normally, she'd have been fascinated by such a manifestation, she'd had other things on her mind that year**:** Harry and the Tri-Wizard Tournament - not to mention Viktor Krum. By summer, the death of Cedric and the return of Voldemort had driven all recollection of a girl called Petra right out of Hermione's mind.

Until her sixth year, when she heard the word "mutant" for a third time.

* * *

"What do you mean I'm not _allowed_ to take Muggle studies? I got an O in my OWLs!"

Miss Granger looked primly indignant, as if she might resort to stamping her foot in frustration -which amused Minerva McGonagall perhaps more than it should. "That's what he said, Miss Granger. I don't make the rules for another professor's class."

"But Professor Dumbledore . . . "

"- will agree. It was Professor Dumbledore's idea to hire him on a temporary basis."

"But why can't I take the class?" the girl cried.

"Because, Miss Granger, you are muggle-born. Our new professor was very specific - only students raised exclusively or almost exclusively in the Wizarding World may take the class - are, in fact, _required_ to take it up until sixth year, at Professor Dumbledore's insistence."

Her lips pursed, but she wasn't about to reveal to a student her own thoughts on the matter - although she supposed that dealing with Hermione Granger wanting _to take_ a class was somewhat better than Professor Snape, who had to deal with students desperately trying to get _out_ of the same class. She hoped their new professor fully appreciated what he'd got himself into.

Nor was she convinced that this proposed new approach was a good idea, even for a half-year stint, yet she trusted Dumbledore, and he seemed to think it was. So they were getting a temporary professor (with disturbingly revisionist ideas) while conducting a search for a permanent teacher of Muggle Studies. On the one hand, it solved their unexpected emergency as to who would teach the class, while on the other, Albus' old friend in New York was getting a thoroughly spell-protected house. One headmaster to another.

Professor McGonagall still couldn't quite reckon why Dumbledore had felt obliged to cross an ocean in order to set a few ordinary Obscurification spells for a Muggle, no matter how well he knew him. But Albus had explained quietly, "Children were at risk, Minerva." But couldn't Muggles take care of their own against Muggles? It wasn't that she disliked them, but she feared that mixing the magical and Muggle world would simply come to no good - and had said so.

"Oh, but this isn't mixing the magical and Muggle world, but the magical and mutant world."

"There's a difference?" McGonagall had replied crossly.

"Quite," Dumbledore had replied, "as you'll see."

* * *

Scott Summers - better known as Cyclops when wearing black leather - hit the generator switch and held his breath. There was a brief stutter, then the lights all around the room went on. Real lights, not candles or lamps or torches or God knew what else they used in this archaic, cold-as-hell castle.

He'd been promised that this special room - located high in a west tower - had been spelled so as to shield out interference from magic. Otherwise, none of his equipment would work.

He snorted. _Magic. _Even if he'd seen spells performed with his very own eyes, he just couldn't quite bring himself to say the word without laughing, and it annoyed him that Xavier had sent him over here despite his own protests. "It'll be for just a few months," the professor had promised. "A chance for you to get some distance."

So he'd been offered up like a sacrificial lamb in exchange for spells set on the school to prevent another invasion like the one Stryker had mounted. While he might have been willing to do about anything to protect his students, he just couldn't take 'magic' seriously . . . even after meeting Albus Dumbledore. Yet, here he was in this drafty, old Scottish castle that had no electricity, phone, or cable lines, in order to teach a rather different sort of 'gifted' teenager.

Well, at least the generator worked, and that meant he could operate the rest of his equipment. He'd just sat down in front of his laptop (which required a satellite connection out here in the back of nowhere), when a sharp rap on the trapdoor to his classroom made him start. Rising, he strolled over to the door and lifted it, looking down the ladder into the face of a girl with bushy hair. "Hello?"

"Are you Professor Summers?"

"I'm Mr. Summers, yes." He didn't bother explaining that the title 'professor' was sacrosanct in his own mind, and belonged to Xavier.

"I need to speak with you, sir," she said, pulling herself up into the room, even though he hadn't invited her. Standing and brushing dust off her robes, she glanced around at the computer stations, movie posters, PSP stations, DVDs and iPods that he'd imported - but not with wide-eyed ignorance. She'd clearly seen all these things before. "Professor McGonagall told me that you're not allowing anyone Muggle-born to sign up for your class. I've come to . . . well - not to be rude - but to lodge a formal protest." She gave a little nod of her chin, as if satisfied with that phrasing. He resisted smiling. She reminded him of a strange cross between Kitty Pryde and Jubilee.

Instead of giving her a direct answer, he pulled his cell phone off its belt holder and handed it over. Baffled, she took it. "What is that?" he asked.

"A mobile," she told him. "But it won't work here. The magic at Hogwarts -"

"I've heard the lecture," he said, cutting her off. "But this phone won't work here because there are no cell towers anywhere close enough. Otherwise, in this room, it would." Then he crooked a finger at her and led her over to his laptop. "Turn it on," he ordered.

With a glance that told him she suspected his sanity, she bent over to open the top and hit the power button. When the blue lights came on and the screen lit up, she appeared startled, but said only, "It's on."

"Name the Beatle who was shot."

"John Lennon."

"Who're John Steed and Emma Peel?"

"I assume you mean the characters from _The Avengers_, not actual people?" Her expression was truly puzzled now.

"What's a Blue Peter?"

"A really long-running children's programme? But what does this - ?"

"What does James Bond drink?"

She just blinked at him. "I've no idea. I detest James Bond films."

He grinned. "He drinks martinis; shaken, not stirred." And he crooked his finger again to cut off further questions, leading her over to his desk and pointing to a DVD there. "Seen that?"

"It's _The Wizard of Oz_; I'd have to have lived in a cave not to."

"Or lived in a different world - like most of your classmates. You don't need to take my class. You can handle all this equipment already and know pop culture."

"That's what you're going to be teaching? How to turn on computers and, and" - she waved at one of the posters on the wall - "watch _Star Wars_?"

"That's right. I'm teaching technology and a crash course in Western pop culture."

She blinked, almost owlishly, and stared around the room at the desks with their plethora of equipment. "But _why_?"

"Because they're useful things to know."

She just blinked again. "But in the Wizarding World -"

"I'm not interested in the Wizarding World. I'm interested in teaching wizards and witches how to survive in my world if they somehow get stuck there. That means learning how to operate a phone, at the very least."

And that won an unexpectedly impish smile. "A friend of mind keeps calling it a 'fellytone' and _shouts _into it, as if it were a tin can on a string."

He answered her smile. "By the end of my class, he should be able to text-message you instead of yell." He tilted his head then. "You asked my name but didn't give me yours."

She shook back her bushy hair and held out a hand, almost formally. "Hermione Granger, sixth year and Gryffindor Prefect. A pleasure."

He shook the hand, "Glad to meet you, Hermione."

"You're a Muggle, right?"

"By your terms."

"You do realize you're quite the controversy right now, with students and parents? There was an article about it in _The Daily Prophet_. No Muggle has ever been hired to teach at Hogwarts in the school's entire history - not even for Muggle Studies. How do you know about wizards? Is someone in your family . . . " She trailed off, jaw dropping.

While she'd chattered, Scott had pulled a quarter out of his pocket and tossed it into the air with one hand, while, with the other, he'd tilted his glasses down just a fraction so that a thin beam of red sliced out and through the center of the quarter, which he caught now and offered to her.

"I'm a mutant," he said. "In the current political climate, a lot of us are forced to hide our abilities, too."

The girl examined the quarter, holding it up to her eye to peer through at him. "That still doesn't explain how you know about wizards though."

He grinned. She was sharp. "My headmaster knows your headmaster."

"He's a wizard?"

"No. He's a telepath. It's hard to hide much of anything from Professor Xavier - including supposedly concealed magical places. He met Professor Dumbledore when he was a student at Oxford back in the Forties right after the war - stumbled over your world by accident." Or that was the story Xavier had told him when he'd first introduced the elderly man with the ZZ Top beard, Merlin hat, and funky robes, sitting in Xavier's study and sipping tea. Scott had simply blinked in surprise when the man had pulled out a stick, waved it in the air and another teacup had appeared right in front of Scott's nose.

"You're a telekinetic?" Scott had asked.

"No, Mr. Summers. I am a wizard."

He'd gaped (privately wondering when Xavier had begun entertaining psychotics), and Xavier had launched into his story of how and when he'd first met Albus Dumbledore, and been introduced to the existence of another group of specially gifted human beings who also had to hide their gifts from the general populace.

Now, the girl Hermione appeared unexpectedly curious. "What sorts of mutant powers are there?"

"Probably more than you can imagine. We're still running into mutations we've never seen before. But they come in two basic types - physical and psionic, that is, changes to the body or to the mind. My mutation is physical. Professor Xavier's is psionic."

"And at the school you come from, all the students are mutants?"

"That's right."

"So why did you come here?"

And Scott blinked, mouth shutting with a snap and throat too tight to speak. It hit him that way sometimes, the grief - as sharp as a blow, incapacitating, even after five months. He turned away and stared at his new desk, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. "An exchange," he said finally. "It's a long story, but it boils down to the fact my school was attacked - trained black ops troops against teenage kids. Not exactly a fair match, even if the kids are mutants. They wanted to capture them."

There was little point in going into the whole mess with Cerebro and Stryker and his insane plot. "After the Blackout last spring, the number of hate crimes against mutants has gone through the roof, and my headmaster wants to be sure an attack doesn't happen again, so he called in a favor from your headmaster. Anyone who tries to invade the school now will face not just our security systems, but whatever your Professor Dumbledore set up." Scott turned back. The girl's eyes were wide.

"I'm afraid Professor Xavier didn't take well to my suggestion that we install razor wire and laser trip triggers," Scott went on. "He's afraid one of the students might accidentally get hurt. Whatever Dumbledore set up, it's apparently able to distinguish between mutants trying to sneak out after curfew and non-mutants trying to sneak in." He couldn't keep from snorting. "But I don't know that it'd do any good against a squadron of Apache helicopters and a full assault squad."

The girl's stunned expression turned sly. "You might be surprised," she said then, face serious, asked, "Did any of your students die? In the attack?"

His throat tightened again, and he couldn't answer for five heartbeats. "No. No students died."

She was watching his face. "Did anyone else die?"

He swallowed, unsure whether he should say anything. But if he didn't usually volunteer personal information, he'd never been an advocate of concealing the truth unless necessary - at least not if he were asked point blank. "Yes."

"I'm sorry," she said with the kind of solemn seriousness that told him she'd said it before to someone who'd lost a friend or loved one. "Who?" He looked away, and she added, "Never mind. I'm prying. I'm rather bad about that sometimes -"

"My fiancée," he interrupted. "She sacrificed herself to save the rest of us." He had no intention of going into all the mixed feelings he had about that; it wasn't anyone else's business, least of all a student's.

"She sounds very brave," Hermione said.

"Yes, she was."

Hermione turned and headed back to the trapdoor. "Thank you for seeing me, Professor Summers, even if I can't take your class." She paused with the door open and herself halfway out. "Good luck. And please let me know if you, er, need anyone who grew up a Muggle to help tutor. There are some of us around."

"I'll keep that in mind," he replied.

When she was gone, he collapsed in a wooden chair near one of the windows and stared out at the Black Lake whose waters reflected the setting sun - all red to him. He should go down to dinner, but didn't especially want to. He had a hard time, these days, bearing company or crowds that weren't entirely anonymous. The students would stare at him, he knew, and he didn't feel up to being stared at, so he stayed in the seat until long past sunset, his room a steady yellow with the glow of artificial light. At some point, he heard a noise behind him and turned, but there was no one there - just a plate and bowl and glass. Apparently around here, if one didn't come to supper, supper came to him. Rising, he walked over to see what his unseen guest had delivered.

* * *

"There is still the matter of the Weasley twins' _swamp_ in the fifth floor, east wing corridor - " Severus was saying when the door to the staff room opened and all the instructors turned to look. The man standing there didn't appear to be much older than some of their students, and Minerva pursed her lips at the uncanny symmetry of his face. Gilderoy Lockhart had made her skeptical of anyone with looks like that.

"I apologize," he said as he approached and seated himself in the remaining empty chair, laying out a yellow legal pad in front of him, and twisting open a mechanical pencil. "Tardiness isn't typical for me. I need a map of this place."

Severus was glaring - perhaps at being interrupted, perhaps at the new teacher's inability to find his way to a meeting, or perhaps just because he was Severus and his face had frozen in that expression at some point ten years ago - but Dumbledore merely smiled at the newcomer and nodded. "Welcome, Scott. I believe myself the only one here to have had the pleasure of meeting you in person" - which was, Minerva thought, a gentle reprimand that their newest teacher hadn't bothered to attend either the Welcome banquet or last night's supper - "may I present your new, if temporary, colleagues." And he went around the table, introducing everyone, starting with Minerva herself on his right. The Muggle didn't blink at any of them, even professors Flitwick with his tiny size, Hagrid with his height, Hooch with her cat pupils, or (most of all) Firenze. Minerva gave him mental points for that.

Once the rest of them had been introduced, Albus said, "And may I present Mr. Scott Summers, lately of Westchester, New York, where he taught mathematics and . . . 'shop,' I believe you called it?" Summers nodded. "I trust the rest of you will make Professor Summers feel welcome." Most of the staff nodded politely or offered smiles, though a few seemed a bit skeptical (Minerva suspected her own expression might place her in that category), and Snape openly sneered.

"As I was saying," he went on in that sepulchral voice, "we seem to have a swamp - "

"It's barely a yard square," Flitwick interrupted, "up against the wall where no one's likely to step in it. The magic it took to generate, not to mention the service rendered" - he grinned - "deserves a little tribute."

"So you would _encourage_ troublemakers, then? The departure of the Weasleys has already gained near apocryphal dimensions."

"For now," Dumbledore interrupted, "the swamp may stay. Shall we turn our attention to more pressing matters, such as coordinating our end-of-term exam timetables before the Christmas holidays? I trust that all of you have brought your requests. We'll go around the table . . . "

Parchment rustled as timetables were withdrawn and smoothed out on the table. Summers just flipped pages, earning a few glances. Organizing exam schedules sometimes went smoothly . . . and sometimes didn't.

"I'll need the first, second, and third years for an afternoon," Summers said when the turn came around to him, "and fourth and fifth, plus any older students, for a 24-hour period - not on the same day. I'll need transportation for the older kids to London - a field trip. Does your school have buses?"

Dead silence met that. "Buses?" Madam Hooch asked. "You mean like the Knight Bus?"

And Madam Vector leaned forward to inquire, "Why are you taking our students to _London_?" She glanced at Dumbledore. "Is that _safe_ \- right now? With You-Know-Who . . . ?"

"It's for their exam. I can't give it to them here. And trust me, they'll be watched over."

"Watched over? By _Muggles_?"

"By X-Men," Summers replied. "And this is a practical exam. I have to take them to London."

Before that could elicit more protest, Dumbledore said, "I'll see what can be arranged in the way of transportation, although -" he glanced down at the master timetable he was making - "this field trip may require us to move your exams slightly ahead of the others by a few days?"

"Fine with me."

"Then let's move on."

When the meeting broke up, it was clear that Summers was in a hurry to gather his things and get to the door as if avoiding them all, but several of the teachers - apparently oblivious to his lack of interest in socializing - had collared him. All were female, including Hooch, Vector and Sinistra.

"I see that Professor Summers is already reaping the rewards of his good looks," Severus muttered softly - but loud enough that Minerva caught it.

"Thinking of Gilderoy?" she replied.

"Among other things, including how long a Muggle will survive his magical students." Severus' dark eyes had narrowed. "He's rather smug, isn't he?"

Minerva raised an eyebrow. In fact, she hadn't found him particularly so. "A bit standoffish, perhaps, but not smug, Severus." Then she found herself adding (to her own surprise), "I believe he may feel out of his depth."

"As well he should, if he can't even find the _staff room_."

"It usually takes our first years a while to learn their way around, too," said a voice behind them. Dumbledore, of course. "He was never a student here. Do not underestimate him, Severus, or his ability to survive magical students, as he survives _mutant _students on a regular basis."

Snape's sneer was now more pronounced than ever. "One-trick ponies," he said. "Mutants are not wizards. And I do not see the point in the course of study he has proposed."

"So you've said," Albus replied lightly. "Several times, I do believe. In any case, I wanted to forewarn both of you that I will be departing again tomorrow night and may not return for a while. Minerva, you remember how to contact me, in the event of an emergency?"

"Of course."

"Then I shall leave you to your first-periods."

* * *

"Wands out."

Ginny Weasley suppressed a start, but did as their new professor said, pulling her wand from her robes and wondering what on earth he wanted her to do with it. Wasn't he a Muggle? Certainly, he was dressed like one in street clothes, not proper robes. (And what was that on his _face_? It appeared to be some bizarre, dark metal contraption with a single long slit in the front.) She traded a glance with Neville Longbottom - one of the few older students to have signed up for Muggle Studies voluntarily. She suspected that he, like her father, harbored a bit of a fancy for them.

Picking up a can from his desk, their teacher began to circle the room. Unlike most classrooms at Hogwarts, this one had tables around its circumference with . . . stuff on them. She was pretty sure that was a computer in front of her, given what she'd learned from Dean. Now, holding out the can to the four at the first table, their professor said, "Please deposit your wands in here. You can collect them at the end of class."

The four students appeared surprised, but did as instructed, and he moved on, collecting wands, and speaking as he went. "My name is Scott Summers, and while I know it's customary at Hogwarts to refer to your teachers as 'professor,' where I come from, that title's usually reserved for college-level instructors, so 'Mr. Summers' will do for me. You'll find that I'm hard, but fair, and I don't play favorites when it comes to grading. You'll get the grade that reflects your industry."

"'Industry?' Demelza Robins whispered from across the table, "What does he mean 'industry'? Who talks like that - 'industry'?"

"He means if you work, you'll get an O," Ginny replied, sighing.

"I know," Summers continued now, "that about half of you - maybe more - don't want to be here, and don't see the point. You live in the Wizarding World, so why learn to use a computer or a cell phone? Hopefully, by Christmas break, you'll have decided that learning to work a computer is pretty easy, and worth your time."

He'd reached a table full of Slytherins now. All four were slouched in their seats, arms crossed, wands _not_ held out to go in the jar. He stopped in front of them, can still outstretched. "Your wands, gentlemen."

"Didn't anyone tell you, _Muggle_, that you don't try to take a wizard's wand?" Adrian Pucey asked. His chin was up and he wore a snide expression that came near-perfect to copying Draco Malfoy, his hero. Ginny wasn't impressed; Pucey was a follower who wanted to be a leader.

Summers didn't look impressed, either - or worried. Ginny could see his expression side-on from where she was sitting. "I have special permission," he told Pucey. "If you don't like the rule, take it up with Professor Dumbledore."

"Ooo!" said the kids at that table and the one behind, adding a few hisses. "Why don't you try taking it?" Pucey taunted Summers.

Ginny glanced at Demelza and rolled her eyes - but she had to admit, someone had been bound to challenge Summers eventually. He just continued to smile, can held out. "Last chance to play nice," he warned.

"You have _got_ to be kidding me," Pucey replied.

"I was afraid you'd say that. Dumbledore warned me it might come to this."

Turning, he walked back to his desk, where he set down the can. Assuming victory, the Slytherins laughed and clapped, and Pucey actually stood up, wand drawn and raised. Ginny (among others) gasped. He wouldn't actually attack a _teacher_, even a Muggle teacher, would he?

Summers turned so fast, Ginny barely credited it. His hand rose to the side of his head and a red light arced out from the front of that odd face-screen, catching Pucey's wand and knocking it from his grasp. "Ow!" Pucey shouted, shocked and frightened at once.

"Now what are you going to do?" Summers asked him, calmly. Abruptly two more boys from the table leapt up . . . and the scene just repeated itself. Two more rapid blasts of red, like automatic fire, and their wands went flying, too.

No one else stood, and the students who still had wands hastily tossed them on the table, whether Slytherin or not.

"Now, I ask again, Mr. . . ." he raised his eyebrows at Pucey in query.

"Pucey. Adrian Pucey."

"Well, Adrian Pucey, you have no wand. What are you going to do next?"

Pucey's mouth dropped open a little as Summers advanced on him, hand still at the metal contraption on his face. If Ginny had initially been gleeful to see Pucey put in his place, now she was starting to worry. Summers looked . . . menacing. When he reached Pucey, he abruptly grabbed the boy by one arm and spun him around, twisting the arm up behind Pucey's back and bracing his other across Pucey's neck in a choke hold. Students gasped and a few glanced towards the door, apparently weighing the possibility of escape while their lunatic Muggle professor was busy with Pucey.

But from where she was sitting, Ginny could see that he wasn't holding Pucey that tightly; there was sunlight between their bodies. She relaxed back into her seat.

"Now," Summers said again, "What are you going to do?"

"I . . . I . . . if I were a real wizard, you wouldn't have had a chance!"

"Maybe. Maybe not. I'm a pretty quick shot. But you're a fifteen-year-old boy without his wand and I'm your almost-thirty-year-old attacker. If this were a back alley of London instead of a Hogwarts classroom, would you know what to do next?"

It was starting to dawn on the rest of the students that Pucey wasn't in any real danger, and Pucey's face flushed from scared white to humiliated red as he twisted in Summers' grip, trying to kick backwards. Summers just turned sideways a bit and yanked him more tightly. "That's not going to get you far. Now, let me tell you what you _should_ do - and _everyone_ listen. This is your first lesson in Muggle realities. First, you start shouting, got it? At least if there's anyone else around. Even if your attacker says he has a knife or gun and will kill you if you don't go quietly, that doesn't matter. Scream anyway. You may still wind up shot or stabbed, but the noise and the fear of being caught will upset him and possibly throw off his aim. You're likely to survive it. But the chances of you surviving if you do go with him are very low.

"Second, if you're not trained in martial arts throws - and you're not - instead of attempting to strike his body, which just puts you off balance - step on his foot. Especially if you're female and happen to be wearing heels. Come down hard on the foot, and start yelling at the same time. The combination of pain and surprise will confuse him and, hopefully, give you a chance to get away. If you do get free, run like hell. Do _not_ try to play macho and pull your wand. You're not James Bond."

"There's a lot of 'maybes' in there," said one student at the same time another asked, "Who's James Bond?"

Summers let Pucey go. "Boy, do we need to do some pop culture education. And as for the comment about maybes - life offers few certainties beyond death and taxes, just bets that are better or worse. Life's a crap-shoot."

Sitting down, Pucey appeared nonplussed, and angry, but the rest of the class (even some of the Slytherins) seemed a bit more respectful as Summers walked back to the desk. Picking up the can again, he returned to collecting wands - and no one opposed him now. Demelza Robins even hopped up from her seat to fetch the three that had been blasted across the room. When Summers was done, he set the full can on his desk. "Every time you come into my classroom, I'll expect you to come up to the desk and deposit your wand in this can. As you leave, you can retrieve them. Oh - and by the way, the wands wouldn't do you any good even if you did keep them." He grinned at the table of resistant Slytherins. "The room's been spelled so that magic doesn't work here - which is why my generator and machines do. So you could have waved your wands till the cows came home and it wouldn't have mattered."

"So why did you do . . . that?" Neville asked, then blushed at having drawn attention to himself.

"To prove a point. Without your wands, you're virtually helpless. I know all about that." He touched the contraption on his face. "You need to learn how to function, and maybe even fight, without the wands. Just like I had to learn Braille, and how to live blind, because without the visor, I have two choices - shut my eyes and get by without sight, or leave them open and destroy everything in the path of the beams. Shutting them usually seems like the better idea. So - "

"Pardon me?" Ginny raised her hand, a little tentatively.

He stopped in mid-sentence and nodded to her. "Yes? And you are?"

"Ginny Weasley. But what - exactly - are those things you shoot out of your face?"

"They're called optic blasts. At full power, they pack the equivalent of ten tons of TNT." Even Ginny knew what TNT was, and sucked in her breath, impressed. "In short, I could level this entire castle in five minutes or less. There's a reason I keep the visor on." He tapped the black metal across his eyes.

"But my main point is that living with the visor 24-7, I'm all too aware of the vulnerability inherent in depending on an external aid. You're dependent on your wands - maybe a little too dependent. I think wizards tend to assume that if they're stranded outside the Wizarding World, all they need is their wand to be rescued. Maybe so. _But what if you don't have your wand_?"

He straightened from where he'd been leaning back against his desk. "I'm here to teach you how to get by in my world without a wand. I'll also teach you some basic awareness of Muggle culture, so you can go out in public wearing clothes that were actually _meant_ to be worn together instead of pajama bottoms, a raincoat, and a lime-green bowler hat."

There were a few giggles at the glancing reference to Ex-Minister Fudge's famous hat.

"Now that the little pissing contest is over and I've proved to you that I'm not helpless" - which brought more giggles - "let's get to work. Your very first lesson for today is simple recognition . . . " And class began.

Ron caught up to Ginny later at lunch. "So," he said, plopping down beside her with a full plate, "how's the new teacher? And why haven't we seen him?"

"The new teacher is . . . interesting," Ginny replied as Hermione and Dean joined them. "Right now, class seems to be about recognizing and naming things correctly." She glanced at Dean. "I might need your help. I confess, I'm not sure I can tell the difference between a cell phone and an iPod."

"He's got an iPod?" Dean asked, interest piqued.

"Well, at least _you_ know what it is," Ginny retorted as Harry approached to join them as well, settling in quietly to eat his casserole. His mind seemed to be elsewhere and he was only half-listening to the conversation.

"I heard there was a fight in his class," Dean said now. "Or that's what Neville told me."

"Not exactly a _fight_," Ginny replied, and she related what had happened. Dean and Ron seemed taken aback.

"Fellow's a bit _scary,_ if you asked me," Ron said.

But Hermione was shaking her head. "He diffused a challenge to his authority _and_ turned it into what's called a 'teaching moment.'" She gave a little, satisfied nod. "Given that, I'd say he's fairly qualified."

Ron was staring at her. "What's with the admiration society?"

"Not an admiration society," Hermione retorted, though her cheeks had flushed. "But yes, I think he knows what he's doing - whatever the _Daily Prophet_ says about a Muggle teacher at Hogwarts."

Ginny took a sip of juice to conceal her grin. Hermione had certainly sounded admiring to her, and when the boys had departed for their next classes, leaving Ginny with Hermione in the Great Hall, Ginny leaned in to remark, "I didn't say in front of them, but he's rather attractive, too."

Hermione's flush returned. "Perhaps a bit."

And that cinched Ginny's suspicions. "So you've seen him, then?"

The blush deepened. "I went up to talk to him - to protest," she added hastily, "when Professor McGonagall said I couldn't take his class." Ginny resisted laughing. Only Hermione would complain because she _wasn't _allowed to take a class. "I told him that I'd help tutor, though - if any students needed help."

"Given how bad we all were this morning, I have a feeling he might take you up on that."


	2. Chapter 2

By the end of the week, Ginny's prediction turned true. Professor Summers hadn't been seen at dinner or lunch (or breakfast, for that matter) all week, and Hermione wondered if - despite the successful standoff in his first class - he might be a bit nervous outside the room where magic didn't work. (She still found it astonishing that even a Slytherin would attack a teacher, but suspected that Pucey didn't consider Summers to be a real teacher.)

She was in the library, studying on Friday afternoon - her mind on Ron's Quiddich tryout - when Ginny found her, slipping into the seat next to hers at the table. She slid a piece of paper across. And it was _paper,_ Hermione noticed. Unfolding it, she read the note, penned in a neat, square script**:**

_If your offer to tutor still stands, come up to my classroom, and bring 1-2 other students with you who'll know what to do with a computer._

_-Mr. Summers_

"He's asking you to tutor, isn't he?" Ginny said. "I warned you we're hopeless."

"Yes, he's asking me to tutor." Hermione refolded the paper and stashed it in a pocket of her robes. "Where's Dean?"

"Common Room, I think."

Hermione closed her book and stood, packed her satchel, and led Ginny out and back to Gryffindor Tower, where she collected Dean Thomas and, on second thought, Colin Creevey, too. Unfortunately, Harry didn't seem to be around, or she'd have snagged him, as well. "We're needed," Hermione told the boys.

"Where're we going?" Dean asked, skeptical, though Colin appeared eager enough.

"To Professor Summers' classroom," she replied.

"He asked us to call him Mr. Summers," Ginny corrected, as she trailed along, apparently having decided that, as she'd delivered the message, she had a right to come with them.

Hermione glanced back. "All right, Mr. Summers, then. He's asked us to come up to see him. He wants us to be tutors."

Dean's eyebrow went up. "It's not as if I don't have enough of my own homework, Hermione!"

"Well, it's not as if you actually _study_, either, Dean," Hermione retorted, which got giggles from the rest, even Ginny.

It was a long climb and they were all a bit out of breath by the time they reached the far west tower, even if they were used to tramping around the castle. Hermione, first up the ladder, knocked firmly on the trap door, and a moment later, it opened, Mr. Summers framed in it, looking down. "Come on in," he said, standing up so she could climb the rest of the way.

"This is Dean Thomas," Hermione said, gesturing behind her as Dean entered, followed by Colin, "Dean's a sixth year like me, and that's Colin Creevey, a fifth year."

"And Ginny I know," Summers concluded as Ginny poked her head through the doorway, bringing up the rear. He smiled and shook hands with the two boys.

"Ginny said you have an iPod?" Dean half-stated, half-inquired.

"And a PSP and a Nintendo," Summers added, earning twin 'cool's from Colin and Dean. Hermione resisted rolling her eyes. What was it about the Y-chromosome and video games? "If you three are willing to help, you can have permission to come play games in off hours - but only after your homework's done."

Hermione nodded once to herself, pleased by the offer's conditional nature.

"What do you need us to do?" Dean asked. He might not be the best of students, but he was usually ready to help when asked.

"Tutors," Summers explained.

"Like I said," Ginny piped in, "we're hopeless."

Summers grinned. "Not hopeless, but you kids have limited time and opportunity. The best way to learn something is repetition, but none of this equipment functions outside this tower. So I'm going to need to open the room for practice, but I can't be in three places at once to help everyone who might come. A few assistants would be good. I thought we might sit down with your schedules, and see when you could be here. In return, as I said, you're welcome to use the equipment yourselves when my students aren't - and your schoolwork is done."

"Fair enough," Dean replied, and Colin nodded enthusiastically. Half an hour later, they'd worked out a rotating timetable so that at least one of them would spend an hour or three in Mr. Summers' class during weeknights after supper, and on Sundays.

On the way out, Colin turned to Summers and asked, "Why haven't you been coming to supper?"

He shrugged. "I have work to do." It sounded more like an evasion than an answer to Hermione. "I'm still teaching classes - via the internet - back in New York. I have math homework to grade."

Evasion or not, that got Hermione's attention. "You teach maths?"

"Yes."

"Er, since I'm not really interested in playing with the Nintendo - would you be willing to help me with my arithmancy? The maths parts? Tutoring for tutoring?"

His eyebrows went up over the top of the glasses. "I'm not sure how much use I'll be for a magical subject, but I'll try."

On the way back to Gryffindor Tower, Dean and Colin walking ahead and talking animatedly about a game they'd seen in Summers' classroom that they wanted to try, Ginny glanced sidelong at Hermione. "Well, that was a clever way of getting Mr. Summers' undivided attention for an hour."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Hermione asked, taken aback. "I was completely serious! I need help with arithmancy, all right?"

"I'm sure you do," Ginny replied, lips tipping up. "I wonder what Ron'll think?"

Hermione's ears went red. "Ron isn't taking arithmancy."

"Oh, Hermione - that was just . . . lame," Ginny replied, clearly amused. "You know exactly what I meant. And Mr. Summers is almost _thirty_. He said so, in class."

"He's also grieving for a fiancée," Hermione added, and at Ginny's startled look, went on, "He told me when I asked. It's not like I _expect_ anything to happen, Ginny. I know he's too old for me, even if he weren't grieving. He's just . . . "

". . . easy on the eyes, yeah?" Ginny finished, her grin turning into a laugh.

Hermione finally relaxed enough to grin, too. "He is that."

* * *

"He still hasn't come to dinner," Minerva told Dumbledore as she followed him up to his office upon his return to Hogwarts. She was filling him in on school business, including student responses to the new class on Muggle Studies - and its teacher.

"Mmm," Dumbledore said, opening his door with a distracted wave of his hand. "I shall speak to him about it, but remember, Minerva, he's come to us as much for his own healing-he's grieving deeply - as to fill our need for an interim teacher. It wasn't," he added, turning to look at her with a twinkle in his eye, "as though I couldn't find someone else to take the class."

"I'd wondered," she replied. "It did seem a bit . . . odd - even for you, Albus, and we both know how much you enjoy creating controversy." But this was said fondly. Then she peered up at him. "Why _did_ you bring him here? I don't think it just for his sake."

Dumbledore set down his traveling cloak. "I recall when Charles first took in Scott, thirteen years ago. He was an orphan, bounced around foster homes and largely unwanted. Since then, he has become like a son to Charles, and Charles is worried about him now. When I was told what happened to Charles' school last spring, I was appalled that anyone could attack children as this man Stryker had done. But as part of Charles' tale of the assault, I learned that Scott Summers' fiancée had died - and it put me in mind of another young man, an orphan, who endured great emotional distress growing up, yet survived to become stronger for it, and who also recently lost someone dear to him, someone who'd provided him with a critical emotional center."

Minerva's eyebrow went up. "I can't imagine who that would be."

Dumbledore chuckled. "I asked if we might _borrow_ Scott for a while, and Charles agreed. It would give him distance to heal. And it might give Harry someone to talk to who can truly understand what he's suffered."

"You know if you tell Potter to talk to Professor Summers -"

"Oh, I don't intend to tell him any such thing. Another trait that both Harry and Scott seem to share is a distaste for being . . . herded. I simply made a few suggestions to Scott regarding course methodology that I suspected might bring Miss Granger into his orbit - and with her, Harry. Eventually."

Tucking her chin down, Minerva just stared at him. "It was _your_ idea, that class he's teaching and the rule about no Muggles."

"In part, yes," Dumbledore said, settling down in a wing chair and conjuring tea for himself and her.

"You knew Miss Granger would protest about being barred from a class and go up to talk to him about it."

"Naturally. Miss Granger has no need, or real interest, in continuing with Muggle Studies, but being _forbade_ to take a class . . . "

Minerva sipped her tea to hide her smile. "You manipulative old bastard."

"Why, thank you," Dumbledore replied.

"What if that's not enough to convince Harry to talk to Summers?"

"Then more direct intervention may be called for. But so far, matters seem to be proceeding apace."

* * *

Albus Dumbledore showed up at Scott's tower schoolroom after his last class on Friday, three weeks into the first term. When Scott heard the knock on the trap door, he assumed it one of his student tutors, and was startled to find Dumbledore himself on the ladder, grinning up at him. "I came," he said, as he pulled himself up with almost as much ease as one of the kids, "to see how your first few weeks have been - and to apologize for being absent. It isn't usually my policy to abandon my new teachers in their first weeks, but I had other, pressing business."

Scott shrugged. He couldn't say it was 'okay,' but, "It worked out."

"So I was informed." Dumbledore straightened to his full height. "It seems that Charles' confidence in you with regard to students is well-placed." Then he began to circle the room, peering at Scott's equipment with great apparent interest. "If I had more time on my hands, I think I should very much like to sit in on one of your classes myself. This is a . . . computer?"

"That's right," Scott said, coming over. "Would you like to see what -"

"Oh, no, not this evening. Although perhaps later, yes." He shot Scott a twinkling glance and half-smile, and while Scott knew he'd just been politely put off, it was done with such grace, he couldn't mind. Dumbledore straightened again. "Have you had any trouble with students since that first class?"

"No. They haven't always been cooperative, but they haven't been outright rebellious."

"Outside the class, too?"

Scott felt himself blushing a little. "I haven't, ah, been outside the tower much, since my rooms are here, too. Food seems to kinda . . . show up."

"You fear students might be less respectful outside your spelled classroom?"

"Huh?" Scott was genuinely surprised, but then shook his head. "No, no," he said. "I'm not scared of the kids, I just - "

Dumbledore's expression gentled. "Is it harder to be in a place that reminds you of her everywhere you look, but among those you know? Or in a place with no memory triggers, but where you know few?"

Scott felt a gut-punch of grief hit him, then a flash of anger. "You're as bad as Xavier. But to answer your question, they both have advantages and disadvantages. I just . . . I don't really feel like making new friends."

"If I may point out, coming to supper isn't a commitment to a long-term friendship."

Scott nodded, but looked down to where his fingers tapped at the tabletop. "I know," he said. "But some of the other teachers, uh, they, um - "

"Some of my _female_ professors are, I admit, rather taken with you." He smiled gently. "But if you would permit me to tell them about Jean, I can - "

"No. Thank you, but no. I don't want to be a pity party."

"Scott, it is hardly inviting pity to let others know you are a widower and grieving - and not available."

Scott found himself unexpectedly touched that Dumbledore would call him a widower and do so without qualification even though he and Jean hadn't been formally married. Almost - almost - he lost it. But taking a deep breath, he managed to get out, "Thank you, but, I . . . " He trailed off. "I'm not inclined to parade my feelings in public."

"Alerting my staff would be done with all discretion." Dumbledore eyed him over the top of his half-moon spectacles. "Trust me, please?"

Scott took another deep breath, then said, "All right. You can tell them, but I don't want a big deal made about it."

"There won't be." He nodded once. "Now, shall we go to dinner?"

Feeling blind-sided, Scott blinked. "Dinner?"

"Yes, I believe an introduction of our newest professor is several weeks overdue."

The old man smiled, almost gently, and what could Scott say to that but, "All right"? Yet the agreement came out tight. Dumbledore had backed him right into that, and he resented it.

"Excellent," Dumbledore said, and gestured towards the ladder as if completely unaware of Scott's irritation (though Scott doubted he actually was). "You first. Youth shouldn't wait on my creaky old joints."

* * *

Hermione was sitting between Ron and Harry, helping herself to more potatoes, when she noticed Dumbledore enter the dining hall, followed by Mr. Summers, who took a seat between Dumbledore and McGonagall. Dinner was already in full swing, but when Dumbledore rose from his throne-like seat to clear his throat, chatter in the hall died down. "If I may have your attention, please. I'd like to make a belated introduction, for which I apologize. A number of you have already met our new Muggle Studies teacher, Professor Summers, but for those of you who haven't, may I introduce him?"

Mr. Summers half-rose and nodded to the hall at large, then sat back down, his attention seemingly on his food. There was scattered applause in the hall, some more enthusiastic than others. The Slytherin table's was notably perfunctory, while the Ravenclaws were the loudest.

"So that's the Muggle bloke," Ron said, eyes narrow. "He's ruddy good looking, a bit like Diggory was. No wonder Ginny goes up to 'tutoring' sessions."

"Ginny goes up for tutoring," Hermione fired back, "because she needs the practice. And it's _me_ who's tutoring her."

Ron turned in his seat. "Yeah, and _you_ sure find time to go up there, too. To 'tutor.'"

"Just what is _that_ supposed to mean?"

His jaw hardened. "Never mind." He looked down at his plate, then pushed it away. "I'm not hungry," he said and rose to stalk off.

Hermione sighed. "Ronald . . . " She spoke to the air. Both Harry and Ginny glanced at her. "_What?_" she demanded.

"Nothing," Harry said, and returned his attention to his food. After supper was over, Hermione headed upstairs to the hallway below Summer's classroom, getting there even before he did. He grinned when he saw her, and asked, "How's arithmancy?" as he climbed the ladder ahead of her to unlock the trap door.

She followed. "Not bad, but I'm wondering if there might be a quicker way to . . . " and she launched into her latest mathematical speculation. Their tutoring was interrupted by two second-years, come for tutoring themselves on the machines, but students tended to spend Friday nights elsewhere (which was why she'd chosen it as her night), so the second years didn't stick around long. "Are maths hard to read in?" Hermione asked him as they sat back down.

"Read in? Oh, _major_ in. That's right. And I have no idea," he replied with a little grin. "I majored in philosophy."

"Philosophy! Then how did you come to teach _maths_?"

"I like math - Plato used to insist all his students learn geometry - and it was what Xavier's needed at the time. Sometimes you do what you have to do, not necessarily what you want to do." Apparently her face still appeared dubious, as he added, "Actually, I minored in math, and I'm getting a masters in education now from NYU; New York's kinda picky about who they let teach high school long term. I was mostly pulling your leg - but it is true that I'm teaching math, and shop, because teachers willing to come to 'mutant high' aren't exactly thick on the ground. I'd rather teach Epictetus and Kirkegaard, truth be told."

"Oh." She thought about that a moment. "When my magic first manifested, my parents thought I was a mutant. I confess, they weren't terribly happy about it."

"A lot of parents aren't. Some of our kids were kicked out of their homes."

Hermione sucked in breath, surprised. "Kicked out? Who'd do that to their own _children_?" It was horrible. "Yours didn't, did they?"

"My parents are dead," he said calmly. "It happened before I manifested, so they never knew I was a mutant."

"Oh!" And discomfited, she blurted out, "I'm sorry!"

He smiled. "It happened a long time ago, but thanks."

Frowning, she poked at her parchment with her quill. "One of my best friends is an orphan. He misses his parents a lot."

Summers nodded. "It's something you learn to live with, rather than something you get over. I miss mine, too, and I'm twenty-nine."

She thought about that, and what he'd said just a moment before about doing what one had to do, rather than what one wanted, deciding that Summers and Harry had rather a lot in common. But before she could speak further, he tapped her parchment. "Now, as I was saying before . . . "

When she left half an hour later, he said, "Could you dig up three more Muggle-borns - older students? I don't want to take you, Dean, and Colin away from your work even more, but I need to add extra time."

So Hermione tagged Terry Boot and Anthony Goldstein of Ravenclaw, as Ravenclaws seemed to like Summers, and these two had been in the D.A. Anthony was a half-blood, but his parents had stayed together and were living in the Muggle world, so he knew as much about it all as Muggle-born Terry did. Given what Summers had told her about himself, and playing a hunch, she also specifically invited Harry - who proved unexpectedly reluctant. "I may know what that stuff is," he told her, "but my aunt and uncle wouldn't let me _touch_ most of it at their house. I'd likely need tutoring myself. Besides, I've got Quidditch practice. Find somebody else."

Hermione tsked. "Don't be ridiculous. At this point, if you can tell the difference between the telly and a computer monitor, you're ahead of some of them." That wasn't strictly true any longer, but she had ulterior motives, and pestered him until he finally gave in. The following Tuesday evening, after supper, she led Terry, Anthony and Harry upstairs to meet with Summers. When they saw the room full of electronic toys, they oohed and ahhed and spread out to look things over while Summers watched, fists on hips, and Hermione introduced each of them. When she got to Harry, Summers said, "So you're Harry Potter."

Hermione could see Harry brace himself for the usual reaction, but Summers just said, "Hermione tells me you're a good friend of hers. And pretty decent at flying a broom."

Harry blinked in surprise as he shook Summers' hand. "Uh, yeah, well, I captain the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Do you know what Quidditch is?"

"It's been explained to me - briefly. Sounds complicated, and dangerous. I'm partial to baseball, myself."

Harry shrugged. "I like it. The flying."

"I like flying, too."

"You can fly?" Hermione asked, surprised. "Your mutation lets you fly?"

Hands in pockets, Summers grinned. "My best friend has a pair of sixteen-foot wings." That got wows from the boys. "And another teacher at Xavier's can manipulate air currents to lift her up. She doesn't exactly fly, but she can get around in the air. Me - I have to use a plane."

"You're a _pilot_?" Terry sounded impressed.

"A flyboy from a family of them, yep. Hydraulic fluid runs in our veins. My father was a test pilot in the air force." Summers said this with evident pride, the same way Harry often talked about James Potter.

"Are you in the air force?" Terry asked.

Summers shook his head. "No. They don't take mutants - not declared ones, anyway. My mutation is a matter of public record. I'm just a high school teacher."

"Is your dad upset about that?"

"My dad's dead," Summer replied. That got shocked looks from Terry and Anthony, and a surprised glance from Harry. Summers just shook his head, lifting a hand. "It's okay - happened a long time ago. Plane accident. I was only eight; I barely remember it." But Hermione thought he was lying - and Harry had narrowed his eyes as if skeptical, too.

"Are you going to come and see us play?" Harry asked, to change the subject. "We just finished tryouts, and our first game is in October, against Slytherin. I'll loan you a Gryffindor scarf." He grinned.

Summers snorted. "I've gathered there's a little House rivalry around here."

"A bit," Harry agreed. "But Slytherin's in a special category."

"They're the ones who gave you trouble in your first class," Hermione explained. "Adrian Pucey is from Slytherin. They don't like Muggles much - or Muggle-born wizards. Well, some of them." She was thinking of Professor Slughorn, who didn't seem to share the distaste for Muggles. She wasn't too sure what to make of Slughorn, actually.

Summers had dragged over a stool and now sat down on it, hands gripped loosely between his knees. "There always have been and always will be people who have to build themselves up by tearing down others, no matter who the others are - Muggles, mutants, blacks, gays, Jews, gypsies, Indians. Take your pick."

"Why?" Harry blurted out. "I've always wondered about that, you know? It's not like it makes any sense. My uncle and aunt are like that, bloody prejudiced."

"Fear," Summers replied. "Or at least, that's my theory. They're afraid of some perceived power the other group has that they don't, or afraid of differences generally. Humans are pack animals by nature, and seek belonging, but it's always seemed to me that some find differences interesting - people who have enough belief in themselves not to feel threatened. Others are frightened by anything not like them, and see differences as somehow potentially dangerous."

Harry was nodding, as if that confirmed something he thought, too, and Hermione asked, "People are afraid of mutants for their powers? They think mutants are dangerous?" Summers nodded, and she went on, "That's why people once persecuted witches and wizards too. We seemed threatening, and not just religiously."

"Exactly," Summers agreed. "And the fear isn't always irrational. Some mutants _have_ hurt others - either deliberately or by accident when their powers manifested. But a criminal with a gun is just as deadly, or a criminal with a wand. As I understand it, there are wizarding laws, and wizard police who pursue and arrest magical wrong-doers - "

"Aurors," Harry broke in. "Dark-wizard catchers."

"Having power of any kind brings with it - I think - a certain responsibility. Whether that power is magic or something you get from your DNA - or wealth or special talent or extra intelligence . . . whatever it is, it brings responsibility. We may not ask for it, but that doesn't absolve us. I realize not everyone would agree, but then, I also tend to think we have a certain responsibility to each other as members of the human race, and to the rest of the planet, since we live here."

He shot Hermione a grin. "That's my philosophy degree showing, I guess. It's a common belief in various world religions and philosophies. Taoists say, 'Heaven and earth and I live together, and all things and I are one.' And American Indians believe we're all relatives - human, animal, and plant, and even the earth itself. That notion works against group superiority. Martin Luther King said that what's important about a man isn't his skin color or the texture of his hair, but 'the texture and quality of his soul.' I think we could add magical ability or the X-gene to the list of things that don't matter. It's the texture and quality of our souls that make us who we are."

"Our choices," Harry said. "Dumbledore told me that once - it's not what we can do, but the choices we make."

"Exactly right."

* * *

True to his word, Harry brought Scott his own house scarf to wear to the Gryffindor-Slytherin match. "I won't be needing it," Harry said. "We've got uniforms."

"I guess I'll have to go to the match then."

"Oh - only if you want to," the boy qualified quickly, and Scott smiled.

"I was kidding. I'll go. I'm curious about this flying game."

So on a clear autumn day he found himself in the packed stands along with - near as he could tell - every person from the castle, come to see the game. School Quidditch apparently occupied the same status in the Wizarding World as college football in the US. As he watched, he vacillated between amazement at the skill of the teenaged players, and astonishment at the danger.

On the way out of the stadium later amid the cheering, ecstatic Gryffindor crowd, he ran into Hermione who was walking together with Luna Lovegood. Scott had Luna in his third period class, made up of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. She was, perhaps, the strangest student he'd ever taught - which was saying something. But he also found it difficult not to like her; it was her forthrightness, however peculiar the ideas she might espouse.

"So what did you think?" Hermione asked him now.

"That I'm astonished the school hasn't had the pants sued off them - multiple times. How many kids get hurt in this game? Or commentators, for that matter?" He was thinking of the kid in the announcer box who'd essentially been attacked by Ginny Weasley at the end of the match.

"Oh," Luna replied, "I think at least three or four a year go to hospital for injuries, but no one's died since the 1970s. At least, not at Hogwarts. Professional Quidditch is another matter."

_Died? _Scott tried not to gape.

Hermione was rolling her eyes. "The Wizarding World isn't quite as . . . litigious as the Muggle world. And Quidditch isn't _that _dangerous."

There was only one other person Scott knew who'd have used 'litigious' in normal sentence at her age, and Scott found himself smiling despite the subject matter. "I wish I could introduce you to an old friend of mine. I suspect the two of you would get along famously - if you didn't mind the fact he tends to hang around. Upside down. From the ceiling."

"From the ceiling?" Luna asked, befuddled.

"He's a mutant, too," Scott explained. "His gift is agility and reflexes. He also happens to be a genius."

"That would be Hermione," Luna agreed with complete seriousness as Hermione blushed. "Well, perhaps not the hanging from the ceiling part."

Scott laughed, and Hermione stepped away from him and Luna. "I've got to go. I need to speak to Harry and Ron - Ginny's brother."

"Congratulate Ginny and Harry for me when you see them," Scott said, then headed back up to the castle, Luna trailing along at his heels, yattering about some creature her father was trying to prove the existence of. He kept silent. The poor girl (and her dad) were plain cracked, in his opinion.

On the path up, a few students said hello to him but none tried to talk to him besides Luna. He hadn't earned a rep as easy to approach. He kept to himself about the castle, and as unflattering as he knew it to be, part of his motive in soliciting student tutors had been to avoid dealing overmuch with students himself, even while keeping the room open for their use, because he was a good enough teacher to know it necessary regardless of how he felt about it. Six months had passed since Jean's death, yet he continued to feel as if a part of him were missing. If he found it easier to get out of bed in the mornings now - didn't live in a constant state of numbness, anger, or depression - he also didn't have the energy to invest in being friendly. Though to be honest, he'd never been the life of the party, so this wasn't precisely new, just exaggerated.

Focused inward as he was, trying to tune out Luna, he passed through the courtyard gates with the crowd, unaware of the pack of students walking along behind him, or of the fact that they weren't very cheerful about the match. He dimly noted a student, who'd apparently been waiting, leap down out of a tree's lower branches to join them. Then, before he realized what was up, he felt the weight lift from the bridge of his nose - and his glasses were flying off his face. He jerked his head upward as his optic blasts erupted skyward, the beams scraping an upper gable and turning it to rubble. Kids screamed, and he shouted for everyone to get down while his hands covered his eyes. Then kneeling, eyes squeezed shut, he groped about for his missing glasses.

Amid the students' fearful shouting and questions, he heard derisive laughter - girls and boys. "They're not down _there_, Muggle," said a boy just to his right. "Why don't you stand up and reach? We can have you dance for us."

More laughter, but Scott had a position now, and he stood slowly, swiveling just a little to be sure of his balance, even as the student voices around him turned from fear to anger. "You can't attack a teacher, Malfoy!" someone shouted - Luna, he thought. "Especially behind his back!"

"I'm not attacking. Do you see me attacking? I'm just standing here."

Eyes still shut, Scott faced the boy in question - Malfoy - and held out his hand. "Give me my glasses."

"I don't have them, Muggle. They seem to be . . . floating." Scott could imagine the gesture in the air that went with that. "Can't imagine why. Besides, if I _don't_ give them back, what are you going to _do_? Poor little, helpless Muggle. Just like you made Adrian feel in class, isn't it?"

Before the boy understood what was happening, Scott grabbed and put him in the same headlock he'd used on Adrian Pucey - albeit a good deal less gently. The kid was groaning in exaggerated pain. "Argh! Gerroff, you're hurting me! My mother will hear about this!"

"I'm sure she will," Scott hissed in his ear. "I'm sure Mommy hears about everything; you sound like a terminal whiner." That got giggles from the kids watching, though not from the boy's friends. "Now you listen to me. You may have found taking my glasses hilarious, but that's only because you have no idea just how colossally _stupid_ it was, or how powerful my beams are. We're standing in a courtyard _packed_ with people. If my beams had hit the front of the castle, they could have blasted out the support struts and brought down the stone on top of everyone, not to mention blasting to bits anyone standing in front of me. Trying to yank the glasses off my face is not a funny joke. Now you're going to put them back in my hand, and I'll let you go." He made it an 'and' not an 'or,' as this wasn't a stand-off. It was an order from teacher to student.

"It was actually Pansy Parkinson who Levitated them," came a familiar male voice just to Scott's left, though he couldn't place who it was. Then he felt someone slip the cool metal frames into the hand braced around the Malfoy boy's front. "I've got my wand on them; you can let him go."

"What's going on here?" came a sharp, deep voice from behind them both - an adult voice Scott did recognize. Professor Snape.

Releasing Malfoy, Scott put his glasses back on and turned to face the other teacher, who wore his 'stern and disapproving' expression. "It's taken care of," he said.

"Were you _manhandling_ a student, Professor Summers? One from _my_ house?" Reaching out, he plucked at the Gryffindor scarf, as if to suggest House prejudice as the cause.

"Malfoy had Parkinson Levitate Mr. Summers' glasses off his face." It was the boy beside Summers, the one who'd given him back his glasses - Harry Potter, he could see now, dressed in house robes rather than his Quidditch uniform, but still toting his broom.

"I didn't ask you, Potter." Snape managed to make the boy's name sound like a curse, and Scott wondered what that was about.

"But what Harry says is true," Luna confirmed. "One of them" - she nodded towards the small pack of Slytherins standing under the tree to their right - "did Levitate the glasses off Mr. Summers' face."

Even more annoyed, Snape seemed ready to jump down her throat, too, so Scott stepped in. "The kids aren't lying. Fortunately, I felt the glasses shift - long practice - and jerked my head up to avoid turning the castle entrance to rubble, but I'm afraid I still caught the edge of the roof." He pointed to the partly destroyed gable. "When I asked for the glasses back, this one" - he thumbed at Malfoy - "seemed more interested in seeing me 'dance' for them. His words."

Snape's expression appeared torn between exasperation and a certain bitter amusement; Scott suspected he'd have liked to see the Muggle teacher incapacitated. Snape didn't like Scott much, though Scott hadn't exchanged twenty words with the man, total. "How did Potter get involved?" Snape asked now.

Scott's eyebrows went up. "He just returned my glasses." Then he glanced at Malfoy, who'd backed up into the center of the five Slytherins. It was clear he was the ringleader, whether or not he'd performed the actual spell. Other students had crowded about, too, whispering. "Go," Scott told them, "this isn't a show." They hesitated. "Go!" he repeated, and the kids dispersed, including Luna, until only the Slytherins and Potter remained. Scott had the impression that Harry, perhaps as Quidditch captain, was used to hanging around the adults, so he removed the loaned scarf and handed it over. "Here, and thanks. Now you go on, too."

Harry hesitated, shot a glance at Snape, but walked away. Snape seemed . . . surprised. "No backup on your side?" he muttered softly.

"Do I need it?" Scott asked, turning to meet the other man's dark eyes, or meet them as well as he could from behind ruby quartz. As with most people, Snape didn't seem sure where to focus. "I'm not in the habit of punishing students in the hearing of other students. Are _you_?"

Snape's lips thinned, but he nodded to Malfoy and his clique, and asked, still _sotto voce_, "What do you plan to do? Attacking an instructor is an expellable offense."

"What lesson would that teach?" Scott replied, but rhetorically as he moved in closer to Malfoy and the pug-faced girl on Malfoy's arm - apparently the one who'd performed the spell. "Given the potential for massive and severe harm both to the castle itself and the students in it, I'd say Parkinson should get Slytherin docked 50 points, as she's the one credited with the charm."

He'd heard other teachers award and subtract points, though he'd never actually done so himself. The girl now appeared taken aback, and set to protest, but nothing came out of her mouth. Instead, she looked to Malfoy, as if in appeal, but he wasn't looking at her. "Unless someone else wants to take responsibility?" Scott asked, looking the blond kid in the eyes.

But Malfoy remained silent. "Well, Miss Parkinson," Scott said, "It looks like he's going to let you take the fall."

"_I_ didn't cast the spell," Malfoy said.

"Of course not," Summers replied. "But I'm quite sure you were the inspiration. Nonetheless -" he turned his attention back to Parkinson. "Unlike other teachers here, perhaps, I'm not inclined to cut you slack just because I _am_ virtually certain he put the idea in your head, and you wanted to impress him. You chose to cast that spell, so I'm going to let you take full credit - and full punishment. I've seen plenty of guys like him - he'll agitate and instigate, but avoid incriminating himself. He'll use the rest of you" - he let his glance slide from the girl to the other kids hanging about - "to do his dirty work, and take the blame. You're not his friends; you're his cannon fodder - even you." He turned back to the girl.

She stirred, as if waking. "Draco has important things to do - "

"I'm sure that's what he tells you." Malfoy was smirking, as if completely certain of his insulation from consequences. "But you need to make a decision, Pansy. You can let him keep using you, getting you in trouble in order to avoid it himself, or you can wise up and take back control of your own life."

Beside Scott, Snape broke in, "Draco, I will see you and Miss Parkinson in my office in ten minutes." And he turned his back on the lot of them to face Scott. Malfoy and his posse scattered, looking sulky. When the kids were out of hearing range, Snape said, "An inspiring little speech. I suppose you feel cleverly psychological in your attempt to 'save' Miss Parkinson from Mr. Malfoy?"

"I don't like seeing one kid use another as a scapegoat."

"Did it never occur to you that she may have been a _willing_ participant?"

Scott resisted rolling his eyes. "She _participated_ just like battered wives _participate_ in their abuse. It's the same damn thing, and she'll stick with the manipulative son of a bitch till he kills her - unless someone wakes her up the fact he doesn't give a damn about her except as a way to buck up his own ego and keep himself out of trouble. That means _not_ protecting her from the consequences of doing what he says."

"You think you have all the answers," Snape sneered. "Don't judge so hastily, Summers. Draco hasn't had an easy life, whatever it may appear."

"I'm not judging hastily; I'm judging based on what I've seen, and so far, I've seen Malfoy encourage, or at least inspire, an attack on a teacher based entirely on the fact that teacher's a Muggle. God knows it's not personal; I've not spoken to any of those kids since I got here. That's irrational prejudice - something that, as a mutant, I'm pretty damn familiar with. Muggle . . . mutie. What's the difference? If I were black, would it be 'nigger,' or 'fag,' if I were gay, or 'kike' if I were Jewish? Or maybe I should call him 'flatscan' because he's _not_ a mutant? It doesn't matter what group takes the fall, prejudice is ugly. And yeah, maybe the kid learned it at home - no one's born prejudiced - but I don't have any patience with the attitude. When I see Malfoy show a little kindness and tolerance, then I'll reevaluate, based on new evidence. Fair enough?"

Snape's sneer only grew more pronounced. "You might learn more tolerance yourself."

"Tolerance of what? Bad behavior? It seems to me that your defense against anyone with an idea you don't like is to belittle their intelligence. That's not a sign of superior smarts; it's a sign you doubt yours. Oh" - he said, raising a finger before Snape could reply - "don't bother telling me I don't know what I'm talking about. More defense. Maybe you should try taking a good, hard look at what your _behavior_ is telegraphing to everyone around you, regardless of what you say? Your justifications aren't convincing any more than the Malfoy kid's rationalizations."

And Scott stalked off.


	3. Chapter 3

"He's an arrogant pretty boy," Snape said to Minerva McGonagall at supper, eyes on Summers as the Muggle teacher took food from a buffet. The dining hall remained relatively empty, most of the students still in their common rooms, either celebrating or commiserating after the Quidditch match - no doubt with pirated snacks.

Minerva glanced at her colleague. "What makes you say that?"

"Did you hear about the courtyard incident earlier today?"

"I did. It was horrible, and if you expect me to veto his deduction of points from Slytherin, you're much mistaken."

"I don't expect it, but he brought the incident on himself, coming here. He doesn't belong, Minerva - a Muggle among wizards. Of course they're going to push boundaries with him."

Her eyes narrowed. "Whether or not a Muggle belongs here does not excuse the fact that a student attacked a teacher and very nearly caused him to demolish the castle. Have you seen what his eyes can do? If that blast had hit the castle instead of a gable, it would have caused more damage than a wrecking ball."

"Then he's too dangerous to be teaching here. And he shouldn't have told anyone that he couldn't remove the glasses. His error."

She shook her head. "What have you got against Professor Summers, Severus?"

"He's an insufferable know-it-all, and presumes on his looks."

Tsking, she said, "I think it has more to do with the fact he was wearing a Gryffindor scarf today, and has both Hermione Granger and Harry Potter among his student tutors. I also think you should be grateful that he didn't ask for Miss Parkinson's expulsion, nor punish Mr. Malfoy for taunting him. His reaction to what happened in the courtyard this afternoon strikes me as remarkably restrained, considering. And - after today - I doubt the students will attack him again. They've seen what his gift can do."

* * *

News of what had happened in the castle courtyard got around, and even those who hadn't seen the red blasts crumple a castle gable like a fist into a child's block tower looked at Professor Summers with new respect. The girls who'd sighed as he passed now kept their distance, which Ginny found funny. "I guess he really can't take the glasses off," Demelza whispered to her in class the next Monday while they worked on an internet assignment Summers had given them.

"No kidding," Ginny replied. "He said so, didn't he?" She checked her scribbled notes for Boolean search commands and tapped her foot to the music Summers was playing in the background:

_And the battle's just begun,  
There's many lost, but tell me who has won?  
The trenches dug within our hearts,  
And mothers, children, brothers, sisters torn apart._

"I thought . . . well, I couldn't imagine _never_ being able to take them off," Demelza said. "I wonder what color his eyes really are?"

Ginny just rolled her own eyes. "Probably _red_, yeah?"

"That would be . . . weird."

"Is there a problem, ladies?" Summers asked, approaching.

"Er, no, Mr. Summers," Demelza replied, returning her attention to her computer monitor.

When Summers crossed the room to answer a question, Neville leaned in to speak to all four of them at the table. "Have you heard what our end-of-term exam's going to be?"

"No," the others replied.

"He's taking us to London."

"London?" Demelza said, surprised. "How is _that_ an exam? And how do you know?"

"I overheard Professor Sprout talking to Professor Sinistra." Neville was blushing, probably for eavesdropping, but added, "We're getting a list of things to find and some Muggle money, then he's dumping us at Paddington station at nine in the morning. We have to find everything, use the Underground, and make our way back to The Leaky Cauldron before sunset."

Ginny blinked, shocked by this news. "But doesn't he know You-Know-Who is out there? The teachers won't allow him to expose students like that."

"Apparently, they are," Neville said. "He's got people to keep an eye on us."

"Aurors?"

"Some of them, plus a group Professor Sprout called 'X-Men.'"

"What the bloody hell are 'X-Men'?" Demelza asked.

Neville just shrugged. "Dumbledore approved it, or that's what Professor Sprout said. But I don't think she likes it, nor Professor Sinistra, neither."

Further conversation was truncated as Summers began pacing around the class again.

At lunch, Ginny told Hermione and Ron about her exam. "The bloke's lost his bloody mind!" Ron replied. "You're not going on this trip to London, Ginny. Mum'd have a fit."

Hermione appeared merely thoughtful. "I'm not so sure it's a bad idea. Think. You-Know-Who doesn't like Muggles. I don't believe he or his Death Eaters would want to spend a lot of time in non-magical London. It'll be pretty busy, too, what with Christmas coming and all."

"You-Know-Who's never worried about killing Muggles before," Ron pointed out as Harry, Dean and Seamus joined them.

"Who's never worried about killing Muggles?" Dean asked.

"You-Know-Who," Ginny said, and told them what Neville had confided earlier, plus Hermione's assessment of the danger, or lack thereof.

"Still think he's missing a few pages upstairs," Ron concluded when she was done. "And I can't believe Dumbledore agreed to this."

But Harry was looking thoughtful, as well. "Hermione has a point. The Death Eaters would have to be stark raving bonkers to try attacking a student on, say, High Street or Chancery Lane."

"Well, I think 'stark raving bonkers' about describes the lot of them, don't you?" Ron retorted.

"I'm more worried that Voldemort might use a portkey to get someone off alone, like he did me and Cedric two years ago." Predictably, everyone winced at Harry's use of the name, although by now, they should be used to it. Harry sipped his soup. "But I doubt he'll be lurking on the Tube, waiting for stray students."

"Thank Merlin for small mercies?" Ron asked sarcastically, even as Ginny added, "I don't want to run into Bellatrix Lestrange on the Tube, either, thank you very much."

* * *

"It's important that they know how to get around in the Muggle world if they need to," Summers said, facing down the other teachers in the staff room. They'd waited for Dumbledore to leave the castle again before ganging up to challenge his plans for his end-of-term exam.

Flitwick was shifting in his seat. "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named would find the opportunity - "

"- not worth the effort," Summers finished. "I've already discussed it with Dumbledore - and Minerva, you know it." He glared at her, supremely irritated that they were all trying to steal a march on him with the headmaster gone, perhaps thinking he'd change his mind when faced by their united front. But he'd been X-Men field leader too long to knuckle under that easily.

"Scott, Scott . . . " Slughorn began, "I can understand why you might not appreciate the _true_ danger presented by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's followers - "

"I appreciate it fine. But the middle of Christmas crush in downtown London means all kinds of deterrents. I'm actually more worried about the kids once they get to Diagon Alley than I am while they're running around Hyde Park. Dumbledore said Voldemort's followers" - every single one of the others winced and Scott rolled his eyes behind his glasses - "are still making covert attacks, not all-out assaults during broad daylight in crowded public areas. Besides, the kids'll be in groups of six or eight, and I'll have my own people tailing them - "

"What good do you think mere mutants will be against trained wizards who are unafraid to use forbidden curses?" Snape asked.

"Wizards need wands to perform those curses, right? How well do you think a wand's going to work if it - and the arm wielding it - is frozen inside a solid block of ice? I know a kid who can do that. Or if the wand just . . . disappears from the person's hand? I know another guy who can teleport faster than you can say 'abracadabra' - or whatever the hell it is. We're not as helpless as you think, and I'm getting really tired of the constant condescension." He and Snape traded glares for a moment; the guy was as bad as Wolverine, Scott thought. "These Death Eaters know how to fight you - they don't know how to fight us. I'm not even sure your curses would _work_ on some of my team. One you can't kill short of blowing him to little bits or dropping him in a vat of acid, and another can phase through solid matter. I understand you actually have to _hit_ someone with a curse for it to work; they'd go right through her."

The faces around the table showed frank surprise - and doubt - but Scott continued before any of them could get a word in edgewise, "Besides, Dumbledore has okayed this. Until he says 'no,' the trip is on. Knowing how to get around the Muggle world just might save these kids' lives if they're running from Death Eaters who don't."

* * *

"They all think you're a nutter," was Harry's greeting to Scott when he showed up for his tutoring hours on Wednesday of that week. There were, at the moment, no students in the room.

"And what do _you_ think?" Scott asked, amused, but conscious of the boy's wording.

Dumping his satchel on one of the tables, Harry slumped down in a swivel seat. "I think you've got a point about Voldemort not trying anything that public. But you'd better be careful. He could find a way to get some students off alone. There are ways to do that, you know, with magic."

"So I've been warned. Dumbledore said he'd supply some kind of alert charm so the kids don't pick up something that's been spelled during the scavenger hunt." Scott pulled out a chair across the table from Harry. "And you just called him Voldemort. Aside from Dumbledore, I think you're the first person I've heard do that. They all wince when I do."

Harry shrugged. "I've faced him four times now. I think I've got the right."

Both Scott's eyebrows went up at that. "_You've_ faced him? Personally? Aren't you . . . a bit young?"

"You don't know who I am, do you? Not really, I mean."

Resisting laughing, Scott doubted Harry knew quite how that had sounded. "I assume you don't mean just that you're Quidditch captain and one of the more popular boys at the school."

"I'm only popular when it suits the rest of them," Harry replied bitterly. "And yeah, it's a bit more complicated. See, I'm 'The Boy Who Lived.'" He made it sound mocking, then told Scott his story in flat, matter-of-fact tones that astonished or appalled Scott by turns.

Halfway through, Scott got up to shut the trap door, indicating the classroom wasn't open for students, and when Harry was done, Scott leaned forward, hands clasped on the wooden tabletop. "After all that, I'm surprised you're not the one who's nuts."

Harry shrugged with one shoulder and stared out a window. "You do what you have to do, I suppose."

Unconsciously, Scott smiled. "That sounds like me."

Harry glanced back at him. "Hermione told us you're here because your school was attacked - and your fiancée died."

As always, the mention of Jean made Scott's gut clench. "That's right." And he, in turn, gave Harry an abbreviated account of what had happened the previous spring, although a more complete account than he'd given to Hermione. It included Magneto's attempt to mutate the world's leaders, then Stryker's plan to kill every mutant on the planet, thwarted by Magneto, who'd have had Xavier kill every human instead, had the X-Men not intervened.

"He could really have done that?" Harry asked, wide-eyed. "Killed everyone with just his _mind_?"

"Yes."

"Wow, that's . . . bigger than Voldemort. And I'm not sure who's crazier - the army guy or Magneto."

"Both of them were reacting out of fear - Stryker's fear of what mutants can do, and Magneto's fear of another holocaust. He lost his family in the first one. He's Jewish."

Harry frowned. "Losing your family doesn't have to make you a killer."

"No, it doesn't. But surviving the Holocaust would tend to make a person a little cynical about human nature. I don't say that as an excuse," Scott added, "but as an explanation. It's important to understand people's motivations."

"Does it make a difference, if they still kill people?"

"It makes a difference if you want to stop them." He studied Harry's face, all hard and angry. "If you have to fight this guy Voldemort, then you might want to study _him_ as much as what he can do. Most of history's great generals were great not because of their armies, or because they new better tactical tricks - spells, if you prefer. They won because they understood their opponents, and could turn that knowledge against them - psych them out. The worlds best generals were natural psychologists."

"Maybe that's why . . . " but Harry trailed off, then asked, "How do you know all that?"

"Because I read Sun Tzu and Clausewitz." Then more seriously, "I read a lot of history, especially military history."

"Do you worry what's going to happen to you and your students - being a mutant, I mean? Do you think the Holocaust could happen again?"

"Unfortunately - yes, I do. And I worry every day. But curling up in a scared ball seems counterproductive."

The kid grinned slightly at that. "Yeah, I suppose so." He was silent a while, then asked, "You must miss her - your fiancée."

"We met when I was sixteen. She was my friend a long time before she was my girlfriend. So yeah."

"I miss Sirius, too. I know I didn't know him very long, but -"

"He was your link to your parents. Losing him was like losing them all over again."

Harry nodded vigorously. "Yeah, that's it exactly." He was silent a moment, then added, "It's my fault he died. If I'd listened when they told me I had to learn Occlumency, I wouldn't have been fooled by Voldemort and gone off to the Ministry. And Sirius would still be alive."

Scott frowned, hearing an echo of his own guilt in Harry's words. "Hindsight is 20/20. If I'd been quicker on the uptake in the prison, or shot to kill not to stun, I might not have been taken prisoner, or let them get the professor. I'm supposed to be field leader, the one with all the tactical skills, but I lasted less than five minutes. If I hadn't been taken, I couldn't have been forced to fight Jean - and damage the dam. She'd still be alive."

Harry had listened solemnly, and when Scott finished, said, "We make quite the pair, don't we? I guess I could tell you it wasn't your fault. But it just annoys me when people tell me it wasn't my fault with Sirius. It was. That's the hard part. Maybe he or Dumbledore should've told me exactly why I had to learn Occlumency. And yeah, I know Sirius hated being cooped up in that house. But it doesn't change the fact it was my mistake that put us all at the Ministry that night."

"Your friends just want to make you feel better."

"I know. But they can't. It still _hurts_." And Scott saw that the boy's eyes were wet.

He set a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Yeah. It does." They didn't speak for perhaps five minutes, then Scott asked, "What was he like? Sirius?" And he let Harry talk about his godfather, then his parents, his friends, his struggles with the Ministry, Voldemort, and even about his conflicted feelings for Ginny Weasley. Scott listened and asked a few questions to keep the boy talking; it was almost midnight before Harry ran out of words. Scott had to escort him back to Gryffindor tower, lest Harry get in trouble for being out past curfew.

At the portrait that concealed the Gryffindor common-room entrance, Harry turned. "Thanks. For, you know, listening to me ramble. It might not seem like much, but I appreciate it."

"Talking's underrated," Scott replied. "It may not solve your problems, but it makes you feel better. I had to learn that lesson, too."

"Yeah. Well, good night, Professor Summers."

"You can call me Scott, Harry. I'm not your teacher. Sleep well." And turning, he headed back up the stairs towards his own tower room. He felt a little better himself, not from talking, but because he'd been able to listen.

* * *

The day the Americans were to arrive, students spent extra time outside despite the cold, hoping for a glimpse of the plane. It couldn't land on Hogwarts ground without the engine cutting out. So they were to land on a moor a bit west of the castle. As New York ran six hours behind Greenwich time, it was nearing dusk before Hermione, who was no different in curiosity than the rest, caught sight of Mr. Summers coming out of the castle's main entrance. Professor McGonagall was with him.

Summers looked neither right nor left but headed straight across the crowded courtyard and out the gate, then down the lane, McGonagall walking beside him the whole way. They were half an hour out of sight when the heavy cloud cover overhead suddenly disappeared, blown away by powerful winds. The sun, on the horizon over the lake, glowed gold, and overhead, something black passed, like a giant, dark eagle, a rumble shaking the ground in its wake. A moment later, it came back, headed west again.

"What's that?" Ron asked, shocked, his hands over his ears.

"That, Ron, was a jet, slowing down to land. They must have circled around."

Harry was on his feet, looking in the direction the plane had disappeared, beyond the lake. His expression was thoughtful. "Too bad your dad's not here, Ron," he said.

Ron just blew out, then turned back to his textbook. They had end-of-term exams coming up in a few days. "Don't see how the Muggles can stand to ride in something that loud."

"It's not that loud inside," Hermione said.

And though the students continued to hang around outside for another forty-five minutes, missing the start of dinner, Summers and McGonagall never returned the way they'd come. "She must've taken them back to the castle by some other route," Harry said as he, Hermione and Ron finally headed in.

Initially at supper, there was much gossip about the Americans' arrival, and the black jet, but as the Americans never showed, talk at House tables soon moved to other topics, including Slughorn's Christmas party a week hence. With Ginny, Hermione headed up to bed early and rose early the next morning as well, hurrying downstairs to breakfast. But no strangers occupied any of the tables, nor was Summers at the head table. She might have gone up to his tower classroom, but she had her own classes to worry about.

At lunch, there were still no strangers, and at supper, there were only stark faces from the first, second and third years who'd had Summers' mid-year exams.

"Bloody hell," she heard a second year muttering at she passed, though she thought the boy far too young for cursing. "I thought his exams would be a cinch, you know? But it was _hard!" _He sounded indignant.

Hermione took a quick bite of the muffin on her plate, to avoid laughing. When she sat down at her usual spot, though, the faces of Neville and Ginny showed no amusement. "I've been hearing terrible things about Mr. Summers' exam," Ginny confided.

"What, that he's actually giving a serious test?" Hermione poked at Ginny playfully with her fork. "This is a _school_, Ginny."

"Easy for you to joke about it," Ginny said. "He's not giving you marks."

Hermione patted her friend on the arm. "I've been tutoring you, remember? You'll do fine."

"When you're looking over my shoulder. Tomorrow, we'll be in London - and you won't be."

"You'll do _fine_."

But talking to Ginny gave Hermione an idea. Finishing her meal quickly, she headed upstairs to Mr. Summer's tower classroom. Focused as she was on what she wanted to ask, it didn't occur to her to make the obvious connection that if the Americans weren't running around the castle or eating in the Great Hall, they had to be staying somewhere. Thus, when she knocked on the trapdoor to Summers' tower, she was completely startled by a girl's face that suddenly pushed _through_ it - as if she were a ghost, though she clearly wasn't. "Yes? Can we help you?"

"I . . . was . . . ah . . . whoareyouandhowdidyou _do_ that?"

The girl laughed and her head disappeared back through the wood. Hermione could hear someone calling out on the other side, then it was flung open and Mr. Summers was squatting there next to the girl. "Hi, Hermione. Don't mind Kitty. She gets a kick out of scaring people." And he offered her a hand to pull her up into the room. Still in shock, Hermione took it, as Summers continued, "Hermione, this is Kitty Pryde. Kitty, this is Hermione Granger. The pair of you would be peas in a pod, I think, if you went to the same school."

Kitty peered at her, grinning. "What? They call you The Amazing Brain, too?"

"Something like that," Hermione replied, still recovering from her fright. "How did you do that . . . bit . . . with the door?"

"My mutant power," Kitty explained as Mr. Summers strolled back to a large table that now occupied the far side of room, at which a number of people were seated, eating dinner. Kitty led Hermione after. "I can alter my molecular structure so that I phase through solid objects." She paused and frowned slightly. "Uh, did you understand -?"

"I was born a Muggle," Hermione interrupted, a bit impatiently. "I was thinking about becoming a scientist before, ah . . . well, before I found out I was a witch."

Kitty's grin came back. "I just got my early acceptance into the University of Chicago - plan to major in physics. I was hoping for M.I.T., but . . . " she shrugged, and Hermione suddenly understood exactly what Mr. Summers had meant, that they were two peas in a pod. "Did you come up here to help tutor?" Kitty asked. "Cyclops said all the tutoring sessions are closed now."

Cyclops? "I know," Hermione said. "I had something to ask Mr. Summers . . . " She trailed off. She had a feeling she'd be turned down, but would rather be turned down by Summers than by a girl only a bit older than she. They'd reached the table anyway, and Kitty plopped down in the one empty seat as Hermione paused behind Summers' chair.

He turned towards her, and Hermione finally glanced around the table curiously at the others seated there - a number of adults and some older teens. A few didn't look quite . . . human. "You're the X-Men?" she asked.

Summers grinned. "Yes. This is my team." He gestured to people in turn. "Ororo Munroe, called Storm; Hank McCoy, called Beast - he's the one I told you about who hangs from the ceiling -"

Hermione tried not to gape at the big man who was completely covered in blue fur yet wore a pair of little glasses perched on his nose that looked remarkably like Harry's. The one beside him startled even more, with blue skin, pointed ears, yellow eyes, fangs, and a spade-tipped tail.

"Kurt Wagner, called Nightcrawler," Summers went on, "and Logan, called Wolverine; plus Betsy Braddock, Psylocke - she's from England, a friend of the professor's, and met us when we arrived. The others are trainees - Piotr Rasputin, called Colossus . . . "

Hermione could see why. The young man looked to be almost as big as Hagrid, but she doubted it was from Giant blood.

"Bobby Drake, called Iceman; Rogue and Jubilee; Dani Elk River, called Mirage; Sam Guthrie, called Cannonball; Jimmy Proudstar, called Thunderbird; and Kitty Pryde, our Shadowcat, who you already met. Folks, this is Hermione Granger. She's been my chief student assistant here."

The people gathered around the table murmured hellos and (mostly) smiled at her. The man with the funny hair whom Summers had called Wolverine didn't look like he ever smiled. "Why the nicknames?" Hermione asked. She wasn't going to say that they sounded rather silly.

"They're like pilot call signs," Summers explained. "They allow us to communicate over a radio without giving out name, rank and serial number - so to speak."

"And yours is . . . Cyclops? Like the monster in the _Odyssey_?"

"That's right - but hopefully I'm not quite as stupid."

"I wouldn't bet on that, bub," Wolverine said while reaching for another piece of bread. He flicked a _knife_ out of his . . . _knuckle_? and speared the bread, dropping it onto his plate.

Summers just raised his middle finger at Wolverine while the rest of the table laughed and Hermione struggled not to be scandalized. It wasn't very teacherly. Yet he seemed more at ease here and it struck her that 'Cyclops' was a rather different person than the Mr. Summers she and the rest had come to know that autumn.

Conversation around the table resumed and Summers turned his full attention to her. "What did you need, Hermione?"

"I wanted to ask to come with you tomorrow."

His mouth opened just a little in surprise. "Don't you have classes?"

"Yes, but, well . . . I thought that perhaps I could help."

Rising from the table, Summers walked a little away, motioning her to follow. A few of his friends glanced in their direction, but didn't comment. Hands on hips, he studied her face before saying, "You're a Muggleborn witch, Hermione, and I understand that it's people like you, or witches and wizards married to Muggles, who've been the most prominent targets of Voldemort's campaign. Part of why Dumbledore even agreed to this exam is that the students going to London _aren't_ Muggleborn. Taking you would be tantamount to painting a big target on your back."

Supremely irritated, she put hands on her own hips in a matching pose to his. "Sir, while I appreciate the concern, I think you're overlooking a few things."

Both his eyebrows went up in question, so she continued, "If Vol- . . . You-Know-Who is after Muggleborn witches and wizards, how much more would he be after a Muggle who's _teaching_ witches and wizards? And worse, teaching them to do Muggle things? If I have a target painted on my back, I think yours is just a bit bigger!"

Abruptly, he grinned, as if she'd amused him - which pissed her off. "I'm aware I might be high on Voldemort's hit list - assuming he can be bothered with me at all. But I'm an adult, trained in self-defense and fighting techniques, with an alpha-level mutation - as is almost everyone else in this room, or they wouldn' t _be_ here. Voldemort and his Death Eaters would do well not to tangle with us. We may be 'One-Trick Ponies' in Professor Snape's opinion, but we're ponies the size of Clydesdales." He patted her shoulder, "I think we'll be okay. I'd rather not take you out of classes. Your Head of House wouldn't appreciate it."

"But who's going with you? Besides them," she jerked her chin at the table behind. "The other teachers have classes, too, don't they? You need a witch or wizard with you, I think -"

"_Dumbledore_ is going with us," Scott replied. "And I understand there will be a number of aurors there, as well, in case we need them." He lowered his chin and looked at her from behind those glasses. The room was dim enough that she thought she could see a reddish glow, and she recalled Harry's description of the powerful red beams that had erupted from his eyes when Pansy had pulled the glasses off his face. She hoped he was right and he _was_ powerful enough to stand up to Death Eaters. "So, thank you. Again. But you go to class tomorrow, and don't worry, okay? I'm pretty good at worrying all by myself, trust me."

And for some reason, that made her grin back at him. Then she glanced down between her feet and gave a little shrug. "All right. But, well, you'll let us know that everyone's okay tomorrow night, right?"

"I'm sure you'll hear if they aren't."

"Are you coming back here, after the tests?"

He shook his head. "No, I don't think so. Well, I'll be coming back long enough to pack my things, but then I'm heading to the States with my team. Slughorn was trying to get me to come to his Christmas party - I think he's decided I'm a novelty." He shrugged.

"I'd try to talk you into coming as my guest - but, well -"

"I don't think Ron would appreciate me coming as your guest," Scott replied, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "Besides, I'm too old for you."

"I wasn't implying anything like _that_, and Ron not liking it is the point. Besides, how did you -"

"I have eyes. And ears. And you sure do talk about him a lot for a boy who annoys you so much."

She blushed furiously. "Yes, well, he's a prat. And more interested in Lavender Brown's _chest_."

Summers broke up laughing. "Most boys are, at that age. We grow up eventually; give him a few years."

Resisting rolling her eyes at that, she held out her hand to him, formally, as she had that very first day they'd met. "If I don't see you again then, good luck, sir. I'm glad to've met you."

He took the hand and gripped firmly. "You, too, Hermione. And if you're ever in the States and the New York area, head up to Westchester County. I'll show you around _my_ school."

"Perhaps I will." She let his hand go and returned to the trapdoor, leaving the warm, yellow room full of people, and trying not to worry about how they'd all do tomorrow watching over witches and wizards in London with You-Know-Who and his followers out there, too. She hoped that her earlier thoughts were correct, and You-Know-Who wouldn't bother coming after them into very public, Muggle areas.

* * *

"So, what else is on the list?" Ginny asked, leaning in to look over Neville's shoulder.

"We're almost done," he said. "We've got to visit a florist and ask for prices on arrangements, for a funeral or a birthday, we get to pick -"

"But I don't know anyone who's died or who has a birthday," Demelza protested. She'd been terminally confused on the whole trip, and Ginny resisted sighing.

"It doesn't say to _send_ the flowers anywhere," she pointed out. "It says to ask about prices. The point is that if we ever need to know how to send flowers, we could. That's the point of _all_ these things, Demelza."

"After that," Neville continued, ignoring their sniping, "we just have to send a text message to Dr. McCoy that we're done, get on the Tube and head back to meet him at the Leaky Cauldron."

"Okay," the other seven said, and Demelza asked, "How will we know what a florist's shop looks like?"

"We might try looking for _flowers_ in the window," Ginny suggested.

Neville headed for a phone booth. "We might also try the phone book," he suggested. "Get an address."

Neville had - somewhat surprisingly to everyone but Ginny - emerged as the leader of their group. If he'd been confused at first in class, about halfway through the autumn term, he'd suddenly got the hang of things and was now better at Muggle matters than almost anyone else in their hour. They were well ahead of all the other groups today, except one of the Ravenclaw bunch.

Groups had been divided along House lines, roughly two groups per House of mixed fourth and fifth years (and a few older, such as Neville), each watched over by a pair of X-Men and one auror. The groups had a list of things to accomplish, with the first group back to the Leaky Cauldron promised a pizza party for supper that evening. Thanks largely to Neville, it seemed that Ginny's group might actually have a chance at that party.

There had been absolutely no sign all day of You-Know-Who.

Ginny and the rest of her group waited for Neville to return, their X-Men guard dogs standing off to the side, keeping an eye on them. The X-Men had been instructed to stay near but give no assistance in solving the puzzles that Mr. Summers had set for his students. The two assigned to their group were (she'd gathered) 'heavy hitters'**:** Storm and Psylocke. And Ginny knew why, too. Of the Hogwarts' groups in London, hers was considered among the higher risk, as she and Neville both were in it; so, too, was the Ravenclaw group containing Luna Lovegood - ironically, the very group that had proved to be their biggest rival so far. That group was being watched over by none other than Mr. Summers himself and a young woman with curly dark hair called Shadowcat. 'A long- and short-range fighter with each group," Mr. Summers had explained. Remus Lupin was the auror assigned to Ginny's group - back from wherever it was he'd recently been - and Tonks was following the Ravenclaws.

Neville was trotting back towards them now, a slip of paper in his hand, glancing both ways as he crossed the street. (So far, Demelza and Diana had both got themselves hooted at for walking out in front of traffic.) Neville was sporting a black _Pink Floyd_ shirt - one of their assignments had been to visit a record store and find a t-shirt advertising a Muggle band they'd liked best from those they'd been introduced to in class. The boys had all changed into their shirts in a public bathroom, though Ginny, Diana, and Demelza were carrying theirs. Ginny had picked Elton John.

Now, joining the rest of them, Neville waved the paper. "Address. I called, too, and they're only about three or four streets from here, that way." He pointed, and the rest of them followed after him like ducklings behind a gander.

"Mr. Summers had better give you an O for this exam," Ginny told him. "We wouldn't be half so close to being done without you."

Neville blushed, but Demelza protested, "We've all helped."

"Helped, yes-mostly helped get us lost a few times." Ginny looked speculatively at Neville. "You know, if doing something with plants doesn't pan out for you as a career, Neville, you might consider Dad's department, working with Muggle objects."

He appeared thoughtful at that suggestion. "Maybe," he replied. "I like plants better, though."

"You are interested in plants?" asked an unexpected voice and the rest of them turned to look.

The white-haired X-Woman who'd been walking off to the side now moved closer and was looking at Neville with real interest. He seemed completely tongue-tied at the attention, however. The woman - Storm - was spectacularly pretty, and Ginny had overheard a couple of Ravenclaw boys whispering that morning before starting out, asking why they couldn't have teachers who looked like _that_ at Hogwarts, and could they perhaps fake a mutant power in order to change schools? "I mean, her for history class, or Binns? Gimme the cleavage!"

Mr. Summers, who happened to have been standing almost right behind them, had leaned in to whisper, "Her _cleavage_ could kick your ass, Philip, so I'd be careful with the wise-cracks."

Ginny and Demelza had nearly fallen over laughing at the look on Phil's face. Now, Ginny said to Storm, "Neville is probably the best in his year in Herbology. Professor Sprout says he's a natural."

"Professor _Sprout_?" Storm asked. "Your Herbology teacher is named Professor _Sprout_?" And she laughed, then said, "At Xavier's, I am in charge of the gardens and atrium. I find working with plants both a subtle art and a soothing one." And now, instead of just looking embarrassed, Neville was nodding enthusiastically. "Do you have a favorite type of plant?" Storm asked him. "I have been working of late with orchids and hibiscus. I prefer tropical flowers."

She may as well have opened the floodgates. Neville began chattering about various magical water species with great enthusiasm, and Ginny resisted rolling her eyes - but the American teacher not only remained interested, she asked a number of leading questions to keep him talking. By the time they'd reached the florists, the conversation had turned and she was describing her orchids while he listened with interest. The lead Ravenclaw team was there already, Ginny noticed with annoyance, but quite a few of their jaws dropped when they saw Neville Longbottom, Mr. Forgetful-and-Awkward, engaged in animated conversation with the stunning black woman of the shining white hair. Mr. Summers, however, seemed a bit . . . smug, Ginny noticed - and it struck her that he must have known perfectly well not only Neville's interest in plants, but his teammate's, too. She didn't think Storm's appointment to safeguard their team had been entirely coincidental. And in that moment, he went up several points in her estimation.

It happened just then, too - all out of the blue and unexpected.

A black-haired woman dressed in a long black cloak suddenly stumbled into Neville, and Ginny heard her hiss in his ear. "Come with me, or else I'll kill every person in this block, wizard or Muggle. You and I have unfinished business, Longbottom _junior_."

Neville's face appeared . . . startled. And Storm, who'd been talking at the moment, her back to him as she studied a rack of flowers, didn't notice anything amiss. But Ginny knew that mad, transported face.

Bellatrix Lestrange.

Three things happened then in quick succession.

Glancing down, Ginny saw the slight protuberance of the woman's arm beneath her cloak, cocked at an angle, concealing what Ginny could only suppose to be a wand; it was driven hard into Neville's side. And Ginny remembered what Mr. Summers had told them in their very first class about being ambushed in a public place. '_First, you start shouting, got it? At least if there's anyone else around. Even if your attacker says he has a knife or gun and will kill you if you don't go quietly, that doesn't matter. Scream anyway. You may still wind up shot or stabbed, but the noise and the fear of being caught will upset him and possibly throw off his aim. You're likely to survive it. But the chances of you surviving if you do go with him are very low._'"

So Ginny Weasley screamed bloody murder because it was clear Neville Longbottom was too startled to do so. Her scream shocked everyone in, or just outside, the florist shop - Bellatrix Lestrange, not least.

Jerking around, Lestrange's black eyes met Ginny's, and Ginny was aware of Mr. Summers shouting, "Shadowcat - secure Neville!"

Neville was hit from one side by the curly-haired girl, who knocked him right _through_ Lestrange. Literally through, as if the both of them were made of air. Then the girl had Neville by the wrist and was hauling him off through the crowded street, passing through people, lamps, and even a stray mailbox. "Hold your breath and whatever you do, don't let go of me!" she shouted. They were quickly lost from view.

Meanwhile, Lestrange herself was hit from the other side by the purple-haired woman, Psylocke, who sailed through the air, twisting as she came, her outstretched boot smacking Lestrange full in the jaw. Both women spun into the side of a London taxi while pedestrians screamed and scattered. Bouncing off the side of the auto, Lestrange howled in furious rage and pulled her wand.

But Psylocke wasn't there. She was somehow behind Lestrange, her arm around the woman's throat. "Drop it!" she bellowed.

Behind Ginny, Summers was shouting to the students - "Down! Everybody down!"

Most of the onlookers took his advice and hit the pavement, including Ginny, who was no fool. Idly, with some insanely cool part of her mind, she wondered how many memory-altering spells _this_ event was going to require. And if everyone could possibly be caught. Muggles were scattering everywhere, fleeing the struggling women on the sidewalk.

Ginny became aware then of the growing wind, tugging at her hair and clothing, and she saw Storm standing with arms outstretched - eyes white. All around them, sidewalk snow was swirling madly and a fog rose, obscuring what was happening at the whirlwind's center. Somewhere, Ginny could hear Remus Lupin shouting something to Tonks about not hitting the bystanders.

Psylocke and Lestrange were howling obscenities, Lestrange attempting to get a bead on Psylocke with her wand, while the other woman dodged with a grace Ginny could scarcely credit, as she watched through spread fingers. Part of her was petrified, part was bloody impressed. Psylocke didn't move like a woman who had normal _bones_.

Abruptly, from behind her, a brilliant red beam lanced out, striking Bellatrix Lestrange's wand arm. Ginny heard the distinct 'snap' of a bone and Lestrange screeched in pain and rage. The wand went spinning amid the swirling snow, and Cyclops leapt after, grabbing it and - right in front of Lestrange's face - snapping it in two.

Expression even less sane than usual, Lestrange snarled at him like a panther. "Filthy Muggle freak!" she howled, ripping free of Psylocke's grip.

And before any of them could grab her, she'd made a little sideways step, turn - and apparated right out of there.

"What the fuck?" Cyclops shouted.

"She's gone," Psylocke said, needlessly.

"She disapparated," Lupin explained, pushing through to join Cyclops. "She didn't need a wand to do that. But she won't be performing any more complicated spells for a good long while without that wand, and it's not easy to get a new one these days for Death Eaters." He pointed to the broken pieces still in Mr. Summer's hands. "She may not be dead - but she's down and out for a while."

"Why _Neville_, of all people?" Summers asked.

"Bellatrix Lestrange is one of three Death Eaters who tortured his parents till they lost their minds," Lupin said quietly - but Ginny was close enough to overhear. "I guess she couldn't resist the chance to finish the job."

"Bitch," Summers muttered, glancing around at the crowd of people ringing their little group of students, aurors, and X-Men alike.

"We'll need to adjust memories," Lupin was saying.

"No, we don't," Summers told him as Psylocke turned to the crowd, a wallet pulled free from a pocket in her uniform (although for the life of her, Ginny couldn't decide where _that_ uniform might have a pocket).

Turning to the crowd and holding it up, she said loudly, "I'm with Interpol. We apologize for the disturbance, but there's no more danger; please go back to your shopping."

Rather to Ginny's astonishment, most of them did. Lupin and Tonks seemed just as startled. "How -" Tonks began, but Summers - Cyclops - nodded to Psylocke.

"She's a telepath. A little suggestion . . . "

"Amazing . . . " Lupin said softly. "Is she really with Interpol?"

"Actually, yes, she is," Summers replied as Psylocke strode over to join them. "Special Agent Elizabeth Braddock."

"I didn't erase their memories," Braddock said in a voice that was devoid of an American accent. "Only erased their fear. They'll remember today, but will have seen a mutant criminal stopped by mutant defenders. There are worse public-relations messages."

"Bellatrix is a witch, not a mutant," Tonks protested.

"To these people," Storm replied, as she joined them, "there is no difference."

After that, Scott called an immediate halt to the exercise. All student groups were escorted back to the Leaky Cauldron, where Dumbledore was waiting along with Nightcrawler and Beast - the latter two being unable to travel incognito in London, due to their mutated appearance. The group who had been furthest along on their list got the pizza party . . . which meant the Ravenclaws. But Ginny didn't think anyone felt that festive, and didn't mind being shuffled back to Hogwarts with the rest.

Ron was waiting for her and (a bit uncharacteristically for him, perhaps) hugged her hard when she emerged from McGonagall's office with Neville. Harry was with him. "How did it go?" Harry asked.

Ginny turned to glance at Neville, who still appeared a bit shell-shocked. "Well, we had a bit of an _adventure_ . . . "


	4. Chapter 4

By the time Scott got back to the castle, he felt like something the cat had dragged in - and was just a tad guilty, as well, as his theory that the kids would be safe had proved false. Dumbledore and Storm had both tried to point out to him that, for the most part, things had gone very well, and even the slowest groups had gotten through the most basic things, demonstrating that they could make it in a non-magical world if they had to.

"And Neville Longbottom is perfectly fine," Remus Lupin had pointed out, before Scott had left London. Scott liked the quiet-spoken man, thought him eminently sensible (which was the highest compliment Scott could bestow). "Even more to the point - you broke Bellatrix Lestrange's wand. That was . . . an incredible service and boon to us, and something most of us couldn't have done. Not," he added, "that I'd view Neville as 'bait,' but more good came from this than bad."

Scott supposed he had a point. He still didn't like it that a boy had been attacked on his watch. He'd had a bellyful of that last spring.

He was slamming equipment into crates that Dumbledore had promised him would be sent back to Westchester tomorrow afternoon, by magical means. Scott hadn't asked what the means were as long as it all got back. A knock on the trapdoor interrupted him and he stalked over to open it - half expecting it to be Granger. It wasn't. It was Harry Potter. "Hermione said you were going back to the States as soon as you were done with the tests - not staying to term end."

Scott shifted his weight sideways to let Harry climb the rest of the way up into the room. "Not much reason to stay," he replied.

"No, I guess not," Harry said, though he sounded . . . disappointed . . . as he glanced around. "Where are the rest of them?"

"Who?"

"The X-Men. Hermione said your X-Men were here. I was, well, sort of hoping to meet them."

"They headed back Stateside after the test. I came here to pack up, then I'm headed out tonight."

"By plane or portkey?"

Scott blinked behind his glasses. "What's a portkey? No" - he held up a hand - "don't answer that. I've had enough of magic for a month of Sundays. My ticket says Edinburgh airport. My only complaint is that I'm not in the cockpit." Scott shrugged. "I'm a bit of a control freak."

The kid grinned. "Sounds like Hermione." Then he glanced down. "Thanks, for what you did for Neville."

"I almost got him killed."

"That wasn't what I meant. We're all in danger, now, and you were right. The Death Eaters - and Voldemort - didn't attack you. Bellatrix Lestrange did, and she's a bit, well, not right in the head. I'd bet my broom that Voldemort's going to be furious with her. She got her wand broken."

"How can you be sure she wasn't there on his orders?"

"Because it was just her. If Voldemort had really meant to attack you, he'd have sent more than one person. It'd have been a real battle, not just a skirmish, you know?"

Scott nodded, "I see. And it sounds like you've been thinking on what I said - knowing your enemy, and how he operates."

"I have, sir."

"Good on you."

The conversation faltered, and Harry shoved his hands in his pockets. "Listen - uh, I had a question . . . but, well, I don't guess it matters, if you're going back to the States now."

Scott felt both his eyebrows go up. Mutant or wizard, kids had a funny way of wandering all around whatever it was they wanted to ask. "What is it?"

"My mate Ron's dad - he likes Muggle stuff. I mean, _really_ likes it. He collects doorknobs and screws."

It took all Scott's self-restraint not to laugh. "Doorknobs?"

"Well, anything like that. And, um, I, er, sort of found out that one of the things he's always wanted to know is how a plane stays in the air."

"Why not just explain then?"

"Well, _I _don't know!" Harry protested, clearly frustrated. "I mean, Hermione might, but, well, it's not the sort of thing I learned in junior school, right?"

Scott grinned. "Your dad wasn't in the air force. I didn't have much choice about learning. I could identify every jet they flew by the time I was 10 - from the back, front, side, or underneath."

"Wow," Harry replied.

Shrugging, Scott said, "Some kids memorized dinosaurs, I memorized jets."

"Well, that's why I was wondering if, er, I was hoping you might be going back to London on the Hogwarts Express - so I could introduce you to Mr. Weasley. He'd have ever so many questions, and you could tell him about planes and how they stay in the air." He shrugged. "Well, it was just an idea."

"I could send you some books to give to him."

Harry tilted his head. "That might work - but I'm not sure how well he'd understand them."

"Kids' books are pretty simple - with pictures even."

"Yeah, but Muggle kids know things magical adults don't, like how to turn on the telly or a light switch. It may sound ridiculous, but then, magical kids know things I don't."

Scott just nodded, seeing Harry's point. He wasn't sure even a book meant for children would make sense if one suffered the complete lack of Muggle-world knowledge that he'd seen in some of his students this semester. "I'll see if I can think of something and send it to you for him. Even if I have to write it out. After teaching here for half a year, I have some idea how I might write an explanation that would make sense to him without insulting his intelligence. And if there was something he didn't understand, you could help 'translate,' so to speak."

The boy grinned widely, reaching out to shake Scott's hand. "Thanks. Just - thanks. They've been like family to me, the Weasleys. I wanted to, well, do something in return. They're proud, and won't take handouts, so I have to be careful. But this - I know it's what he most wants to learn. And the chance to maybe . . . give back. It would mean a lot. So just . . . thanks."

Scott nodded, struck by the fervor of Harry's need to return something for the generosity of being taken in and given a place in the world. Scott understood that all too well - it was everything he felt for Charles Xavier.

And it gave him an idea. "I'll see you around, Harry."

* * *

Christmas dinner was silent, awkward and plain sad after Percy had left and Harry had come thumping-angry back into the house from his perambulations with Minister Scrimgeour. All the joy of the morning seemed to have been leached out of everyone. The food tasted dry and lukewarm.

After, Ginny went to the kitchen to help her mother clean up, wishing fervently that Hermione had come to the Burrow for Christmas after all (even if she understood why Hermione hadn't - damn that prat, Ron). Fleur was driving her mad.

Abruptly, all the dishes began to rattle and the house to shake as something ROARED overhead like the sound of a hundred horses stampeding. Ginny and her mother turned from the sink and everyone in the living room was on their feet looking up, as if afraid the old house might tumble down around their ears. "I did not think England suffered earthquakes?" Fleur asked.

But abruptly, Harry grinned and ran for the back door. "That was no earthquake! That was a _jet_!"

"A jet?" Ginny's mum asked. "What's a jet?"

"It's a type of airplane, Mum," Ginny replied absently, leaving the pile of dishes near the SpellClean and hurrying out the door after Harry. Her family - and Fleur and Remus - crowded out behind.

They were just in time for the returning roar of the jet, sounding louder and slower than before and then _it was there:_ big, black and awesome, hanging in the sky over the field behind the Burrow. Slowly, slowly, it settled down in the field behind the house, the force of its landing blowing free any snow that the heat of the plane's engines didn't simply melt.

Ginny glanced around at her father; his mouth hung open and his face shone. "Oh, my word . . ." was all he managed.

Harry wasn't waiting. He sped through the back garden, bounding over the light cover of snow, shouting - "The X-Jet! The X-Jet! He came!"

And Ginny suddenly _got_ it . . . and started to grin as well. "It must be Mr. Summers." She burst after Harry. She had no idea why Mr. Summers had come, but given the way Harry was acting, this both was - and wasn't - a surprise. She could hear Ron pounding after and then they'd both caught up to Harry at the rear fence, clambering over. "What's Mr. Summers doing here?" she asked. "I thought he'd gone back to New York?"

"He did," Harry said. "But I asked him -" He cut himself off. "Well, I thought he was going to send me a _letter_ or something with pictures."

Clear as mud, Ginny thought, but Harry was already off again across the pristine whiteness of the field. She glanced at Ron, then back at her family, slowly trundling after, her father in the middle of them, eyes glued to the blue-black jet. Her mum walked along behind him, wearing her new hat and glancing from the plane in her field to her awestruck husband.

Ginny turned back in time to see a ramp lower from the plane's underside, a staircase extending from it. Even at this distance, she could hear the hiss of _hydraulics_ \- a new word for her now.

And then they were coming out, the X-Men, wearing leather as black as the plane and looking a bit like space aliens, but laughing, friendly ones. Harry practically assaulted poor Mr. Summers with his hug, and Mr. Summers - Cyclops - laughed. "Hi, Harry," she heard him say. "Merry Christmas."

He wasn't alone. Storm followed him down, and then three students. Ginny shot a glance behind to where her family was slowly straggling up, goggling at the jet. Fleur, she noted, had seen Storm and yes, that was a jealously assessing glance. In Ginny's opinion, Storm was twice as pretty as the French girl, Veela or not. Now, Storm smiled at Ginny and took her hands. "It is good to see you again. Ginny, right?"

"That's right."

The other three - apparently students - stood back while Harry, with Ginny's help, made introductions between the Americans and the Weasleys. Remus came forward to greet Mr. Summers with a grin, "That's quite a ride you've got there."

Cyclops glanced behind him, almost as if he'd forgotten the plane (which she doubted). "She's pretty. And fast." It was said almost offhand, but he spoiled it because he couldn't help grinning. Remus laughed. So did Bill.

Her father still appeared to be stunned.

Stepping forward, Mr. Summers offered him a hand. "Mr. Weasley? Harry told me you have a fascination with planes. We were in the neighborhood -"

One of the students behind snorted and Storm had raised a hand to cover her grin.

"- and thought we'd stop by. I understand you'd like to know how a plane stays in the air?"

Ginny's dad just blinked, then turned to Harry. "You . . . he . . . " He stopped talking and turned back to Mr. Summers. "Yes. It seems most incredible that such a heavy object can remain airborne without magic."

"Engineering," Mr. Summers replied. "I could explain, but I'm probably not the best equipped to do that, so I brought along a friend who can do it better than me."

"But probably not without confusing _everybody,_" Ginny heard one of the students behind him say.

"Shut up, Bobby," Mr. Summers replied, albeit lightly. "I also thought you might like to meet him because he designed this jet."

"He designs planes? How absolutely splendid!"

"Well, I guess I should say he modified it. He's a biochemist by trade, and a medical doctor. But he invents things for fun. Although," he warned, "I wanted to introduce him first as he's a mutant, like the rest of us. Just a . . . more obvious one." Turning back, he called, "Hank!"

And out lumbered the big blue man who Ginny had glimpsed briefly at the Leaky Cauldron. Here, against the whiteness of the field, he seemed even more impressive. And more blue. And furry. She heard both Fleur and her mother draw in sharp breaths behind her, and one of the twins said, "Blimey!"

The blue man didn't bother to walk down the steps. Gripping one of the railings, he just flipped himself over the side, somersaulted in midair and landed neatly, before ambling over to join them. Ginny saw the boy Summers had called 'Bobby' smack him on the arm and he glanced sideways at him, grinning. "Dr. Henry McCoy," Mr. Summers was saying. "Hank, these are Weasleys - Arthur Weasley is who I was telling you about - along with Harry, Remus Lupin, and" - he paused, head tilted towards Fleur - "uh?"

"Fleur Delacour," she said, eyes not on him but on Hank. To Ginny's astonishment, Dr. McCoy bent at the waist in a courtly bow and spoke to her . . . in fluent French. Laughing in delight, Fleur curtsied back.

Well, Ginny thought, that was . . . unexpected. She'd thought Fleur would recoil in horror of the man's beastly appearance.

Now that introductions were past, the little knot of people began to break up. Dr. McCoy drew Ginny's father away and, pulling out a pad of paper from his pocket, began jotting things down, drawing diagrams, Ginny supposed. Bill had ambled over, too - and Fleur followed.

The twins and Ron walked over to the plane, necks craned up, mouths agape, and were joined by the three students, two boys (one huge) and a girl - the one called Shadowcat who'd saved Neville. Harry hung by Mr. Summers, and Storm picked her way through the snow to speak to Ginny's mum, smiling warmly. Ginny stayed beside her mother and listened. Beautiful Storm might be, but she lacked Fleur's hauteur and soon Ginny's mum was laughing with her as they discussed the tendency of the Y-chromosome to be fascinated by the fast and shiny.

Mr. Summers and Harry had now joined the others under the plane, and Bill and Fleur had walked over as well. Some of them were going inside. But Ginny's father was still deep in conversation with Dr. McCoy, talking animatedly and sometimes laughing. Ginny's mum and Ms. Storm (Ginny had never actually learned the woman's real name) were discussing gardening, with Neville listening in. Ginny resisted twiddling her thumbs, but also wasn't that inclined to go and join the group near the plane despite the other girl there. Shadowcat intimidated her, a bit like Hermione had at first. She seemed very self-possessed, and intelligent, and was apparently with the very, very, _very_ large boy with the nice arm muscles. After half an hour, Ginny noticed the twins had disappeared along with one of the X-boys.

That . . . was probably not a good thing. Rather than mention it to her mother and worry her about what Fred and George might be doing to the poor, hapless Muggle, Ginny excused herself and headed back towards the house. "Fred! George!"

They didn't answer.

Ginny looked for ten solid minutes without finding them anywhere - but it never occurred to her to check the front garden, so when a huge explosion sent shards of glass (or something) skyward fifty feet, she was as surprised as everyone else who came running (wizard and mutant alike).

And there out front, they found Fred, George and the boy called Bobby, covered in smoke and snow and laughing their heads off. "Look at this!" George called, pointing to a giant glass . . . house? It was sparkling inside, as if lit by fairy lights - or Weasley Wizard Wheezes. Ginny realized what it was only a moment before the glass house erupted off the ground and exploded dramatically in the air. "Wicked, isn't it?" Fred asked the watchers. "Bobby here can enclose our fireworks in ice _after_ we've lit them!"

Mr. Summers had a hand over his face. "Dear God. I should have known better than to bring Bobby. I buy him books and buy him books, but all he does is eat the covers off."

That took a moment for the rest of them to get, then Ginny's family broke up laughing. "We could say the same of Fred and George," Ginny's Mum said.

Having determined that Fred, George, and Bobby were not, in fact, destroying the Burrow, everyone returned to the back garden where Mr. Summers clapped his hands to get attention. "If we want to get this done before dark, I think we'd better shake a leg, people. Storm, you want to ride shotgun for me?"

"She's the only one not likely to toss her cookies," Ginny overheard Bobby mutter to the twins. "Wait till you see this part."

Glancing around, Ginny asked, "What do you mean?"

"Plane demonstration time," Bobby answered, grinning. "A lot more fun to watch than ride along for, trust me."

Storm had left Ginny's mum's side to join Cyclops and together, they headed for the plane. "Hank, I'll leave you to explain the maneuvers, okay?" Cyclops called.

"_A vos odres, mon capitain_."

"Very funny." But he and Storm had hopped the fence and were jogging back to the plane where it sat on the grass.

Blue Dr. McCoy turned to face all of them. "Before he starts the engines and requires me to shout, I'll say a few things about what you're about to see. The X-Jet is what we call a VTOL craft or jump-jet. That is, it's capable of a vertical take-off and landing. Most planes cannot perform such a maneuver as it requires a special set of engines. Ours are Pegasus swivel fans. Essentially, they begin engine thrust down, instead of backwards, and once the plane is sufficiently above ground, swivel back, as their name suggests, to push the craft forward. In addition, the X-Jet has a pair of Pratt and Whitney turbines located in the tail - the same used by many Lockheed Martin USAF planes from the SR-71 Blackbird - the world's fastest plane - to the new F-35 Joint Strike Fighter. The Pratt-Whitneys are what allow the X-Jet to break the sound barrier."

"It goes faster than sound?" Ginny's father exclaimed. "I'd heard that Muggles could make planes do that! It's called . . . make speed?"

"_Mach_ speed, I believe you mean." In the field beyond, the plane engines coughed to life at a low buzz and the blue doctor raised his voice. "The speed of sound, or mach, is calculated by the speed of an object, or Vo, and the speed of sound in the medium in question, or Vs - usually a matter of air temperature. Thus, how many miles per hour sound travels can vary. Due to its size and weight, our jet is unable to break mach 3, but Cyclops has approached 2.8 in ideal weather conditions. That is . . . very fast." He grinned. "We won't be doing anything like that today over Devon. First, the plane would be here and gone before you could register it, and second, breaking the speed of sound creates what's called a 'mach cone' that runs ahead of the aircraft, spreading out around it. This is a shock wave and causes a 'sonic boom.' In short - it's _extremely_ loud and shakes the ground even more than what you felt when we arrived . . . and I rather doubt your neighbors would appreciate it."

Ginny's parents laughed a bit weakly even as the engine noise rose from a purr to a roar and Dr. McCoy ended by shouting, "All the maneuvers you'll be shown today are done at low speed and close to the ground, so you can see them. That's actually quite a bit more difficult. If something goes wrong, the pilot has far less time to pull up before becoming a long, black, greasy streak in the snow."

His comment got a laugh from the Americans, but Ginny's family and guests looked between each other with something like alarm.

The engine noise increased yet again and Ginny found herself pushing her hands over her ears along with most of the others. She'd never heard anything so loud in her life, not even the roar of a dragon. On the field beyond, the plane had begun to raise itself off the ground, blowing snow and dirt as it lifted straight up, wobbling ever so slightly. Once it was a couple hundred feet in the air, it suddenly shot off towards the eastern horizon. "Whoo!" Bobby yelled in tandem with the twins', "Wicked!"

A hand shielding her eyes against the afternoon glare, Ginny watched the tiny speck in the distance turn and head back. Within moments it was screaming by overhead, sweeping up and up, twisting, and then coming down the other side like the curl on a Muggle roller-coaster. "Simple loop," Dr. McCoy called out, "but notice that at the top of the arc, they're flying upside down. You have to keep a strong sense of where the horizon is. I think he's going to go into a . . . yes - he's picking up acceleration via a turn. He'll come back in a moment and do a couple of barrel rolls."

And it happened exactly as Dr. McCoy had predicted. The black plane shot past, turning three times above them. "He has to do that maneuver fairly high up, as it's among those most likely to result in directional confusion for the pilot. Like I said - flying this low, he has no margin for error. He'd be dead in seconds. Fortunately, Cyclops' mutation grants him an extra-human sense of spatial realities. He doesn't get lost, he doesn't get turned around, and I don't believe any of us has ever succeeded in making him dizzy."

The plane was headed back east where it turned and came around again.

Upside down.

"I don't believe I need to explain that one," Dr. McCoy said, which netted laughter.

"Unfortunately," McCoy went on, "some of the more interesting precision maneuvers require a formation where the pilots are flying only a couple hundred _feet_ off each others' wings. A single plane can't demonstrate those."

"I like a fellow who takes chances," George declared.

Dr. McCoy turned with a smile. "Actually, many of these maneuvers - while risky - are far from chancy. And there is a difference. Scott's logged I don't know how many hours in the air. He comes from a long line of pilots, and inherited that gift. It's not all his mutation, though that does help. He never takes on a maneuver in the air until it's pitch-perfect in the simulator. He may enjoy the adrenaline rush, but he doesn't harbor a death wish."

The plane had come back again, flying straight this time - very low to the ground. Abruptly, almost directly in front of them, it angled nose up and shot high, but not on a curve as before. This time it just went straight up and up, turning as it rose. "And that," Dr. McCoy said, "is his sign off. He'll be back to set her down." McCoy turned to look at Ginny's father. "Ready for a plane ride, Arthur?"

"What?" her father asked. "You mean - me? I could . . . I could ride in that plane?"

"Indeed. That was the idea." Dr. McCoy was grinning widely enough for Ginny to see he had fangs.

Ginny's mum grabbed her father's arm. "No, Arthur! What if it fell out of the sky doing those things?"

Dr. McCoy smiled at her, "I assure you, Molly, Cyclops wouldn't perform any of those maneuvers with your husband aboard. This would be a normal flight around the neighborhood, so to speak."

"Most _Muggles_ never ride in a plane like that one," Harry added to Ginny's dad, who seemed dazed at the possibility. "It's sort of a once in a lifetime chance."

The plane had returned, slowing until it hovered in the air, then sat down. "It's up to you, Arthur," Dr. McCoy said.

Ginny's dad smiled abruptly. "How could I turn down such an opportunity?"

And with that, he followed Dr. McCoy's gesture towards the field.

* * *

Convincing Arthur Weasley to take a plane ride was somewhat easier than getting him strapped into a seat once he'd agreed. Scott wound up following him all around the interior while Arthur asked question after question. "I'll be happy to explain what everything is once we set her back down," Scott had repeated several times. They had limited fuel and he didn't want to waste it while Ginny's father asked after bulkheads and seatbelts and running lights.

It seemed that the entire Weasley clan except the mother had come along. Bobby was getting the twins into seats and showing them how the harnesses worked while Piotr had taken responsibility for the oldest son and his French fiancée. Kitty and Ro saw to Harry, Ginny and Ron while Scott himself had helped Remus Lupin. Hermione wasn't there, which saddened Scott. He'd hoped to run into his bushy-haired 'assistant' one last time, but when he asked about her, Ginny said, "Hermione went home to her parents for the holidays," shooting her brother such a venomous glance that Scott suspected Ron had done something to hurt the girl.

Finally getting Mr. Weasley buckled in as well, Scott took the pilot seat with Ro in her customary place beside him. Just for show, he pulled out his USAF lingo while they ran check, which made Ororo roll her eyes at him and mutter about flyboys and overcompensation.

Then the engines rumbled fully to life as he gripped the flight stick and adjusted the rudder pedals, taking the plane slowly into the air to roars and squeals of delight in the fuselage behind him. "Here we go, folks," he called back once the jet was high enough above the ground. Flipping switches, he felt the Pegasus engines begin their twist and the jet leapt forward like a greyhound.

"Ahhhhh!" Arthur Weasley shouted in delight.

* * *

The first time Hermione Granger heard the word "mutant" in America was when the cab driver let her and her friends out at the gated entrance to 1407 Greymalkin Lane, Westchester, New York. Although to be fair, it wasn't quite "mutant" in full. That would have been too polite.

"Don't know what you kids want with this place," the driver said, eyeing her, Harry and Ron suspiciously. "It's full of mutie freaks."

Glaring as she counted out American money to pay the man (and not including a tip after that remark), she said, "These _freaks_, as you call them, are our friends and I'll thank you not to insult them." She thrust the cash through the window and spun on her heel to join Harry and Ron at the gate call box behind the school sign, ignoring the cabbie's not-so-soft cursing behind her as he backed up to turn around. Pushing the red button, Hermione bent to say, "Hullo? Is anybody there?"

Static answered, and then a voice with an accent that was neither American nor British replied, "This is Ororo Munroe. You've reached Xavier's School for Gifted Youngster's, how may I help you?"

"This is Hermione Granger with Ron Weasley and Harry Potter. Of Hogwarts. Mr. Summers said that if I was ever in the neighborhood, I should stop by so he could show me around his school. Well, we were in the neighborhood."

Another pause greeted her, then the woman was back. "Oh, good heavens! By all means, come in. The gate's open for you. I'll have someone meet you at the front door. You can stay for dinner?"

With a grin, Hermione glanced at Harry. "Yes, we can stay for dinner. Actually, we were hoping we could stay for a bit longer than that. We're hunting for something here in the States . . . "

* * *

******  
Endnotes:** Despite the somewhat open ending, this is a one-shot not to be continued.

Thanks to Naomi and Bren both for the edits, as well as to Sarah and Hilly for looking over it and adding their suggestions. Depictions of the HP characters are based solely on the books and film presentations. I had to look up the blood purity of some, and with a few, it wasn't specified. I did read that Dean's father is a wizard, though he thinks himself Muggleborn. The lyrics quoted belong, of course, to U2's, "Sunday Bloody Sunday," which seems an appropriate song for the HP world about now.

Descriptions of Cyclops' background are based on the comics. I took a few details from _Special: the Genesis of Cyclops_, but obviously, it's not necessary to have read that. As per my usual stubborn custom, Dani 'Moonstar' is renamed Elk River, to avoid the ridiculousness of Marvel native surnames.

Bellatrix and Psylocke are for Shana and Bobby and the Weasley twins are for Sarah. The confrontation also attempts to explain why Bellatrix wasn't leading the charge against Dumbledore at the end of Book 6. As for the plane info, permit the plane junky her brief fangirly spaz. Old fans from X-Men know I love my planes. 


End file.
